Ogni fortezza il suo accesso, ogni cassaforte una combinazione, ogni persona le parole che è e che qualcuno leggerà.[Yelena B.]
For each fortress, its access, For each safe, a combination, Just so, for each person, words… and that someone who will read. - Yelena B.
You’re right to worry… I plan to abandon you… starting with your lips which I will abandon twice, once for each of your breasts which I will also abandon to kiss each of your sadnesses, each of your most private pleasures. But you are right to worry… I intend to abandon you one square inch at a time, until you’re all alone, all alone with my desire for you. My endless, unforgiving, unrelenting hunger for the depths of you. - Peregrine
“It is a kind of love, is it not? How the cup holds the tea, How the chair stands sturdy and foursquare, How the floor receives the bottoms of shoes Or toes. How soles of feet know Where they’re supposed to be. I’ve been thinking about the patience Of ordinary things, how clothes Wait respectfully in closets And soap dries quietly in the dish, And towels drink the wet From the skin of the back. And the lovely repetition of stairs. And what is more generous than a window?”
— Pat Schneider, The Patience of Ordinary Things (via mesogeios)
2023 mindset.
Franny Choi, from "Bird Watching"
Nayyirah Waheed, from Nejma
“if Jesus told me to rest I would rest so well, I mean I’m goddamned / tired”
— Diane Seuss, from “[Which, he asks me, is your favorite story],” in frank: sonnets
“She wrote wildly of him—not to remain attached, but to become better at letting go.”
“I have stopped seeing a face above your neck. Upon it rests a collection of hollow, unfulfilled promises, concealed behind a dazzling smile and a voice like butter. I don’t know what is more sickening—the sheer density of your feigned charm, or the fact that everyone buys it as if it is on sale.”
“What is the word for something becoming more than whole? What is the word for a bird, already stunning in its sitting form, then opening its wings and the watcher loses their breath?”
— Ode To My Lover’s Left Hand from Life of the Party | Olivia Gatwood (via withthemoonlight)
“Nothing is ever as beautiful as the first isolated moments with someone who might be able to love you — with someone you yourself might be able to love. There is nothing as silent as these minutes, nothing so saturated with sweet anticipation. It is for these few minutes that we love, not for the many that follow. Never again, they realize, would anything so beautiful ever happen to them. They might be happier, more impassioned, too, and infinitely satiated with their own bodies and with each other’s. But never again would it be so beautiful.”
— Stig Dagerman, A Moth to a Flame (Burnt Child) (trans. Benjamin Mier-Cruz)
“May your heart be mine, may my heart be yours. May your sorrows be mine, may my joys be yours.”
— Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni, Oleander Girl (via quotespile)
I’m no longer interested in pain. it doesn’t inspire me, it doesn’t motivate me, I don’t think it’s a beautiful thing. I’ve spent too long making suffering a part of my personality
“oh how does this rage find me. i try so hard to disappear into the happy.”
— — Akilah Oliver, from “she said, meditate on rage,” the she said dialogues: flesh memory (via lifeinpoetry)
“I’d spent the last three years trying to build up some kind of a skin, so I wouldn’t drip with blood every time I brushed up against something.”
— White Oleander, Janet Fitch (via decreation)
