weisse wiese: ugly, by warsan shire →
weissewiese: Your daughter is ugly. She knows loss intimately, carries whole cities in her belly. As a child, relatives wouldn’t hold her. She was splintered wood and sea water. They said she reminded them of the war. On her fifteenth birthday you taught her how to tie her hair like rope and…
She’s got a memory like a slow watermill. Hold, turn, spill. She keeps...– NEW STORY POSTED: “Catch and Release” by Justin J. Brouckaert. WhiskeyPaper, May 2013. (via whiskeypaper)
You’re under no obligation to be the same person you were five minutes ago.– (via femmeinnest)
Perhaps they were right putting love into books. Perhaps it could not live...– William Faulkner (via solunars)
It’s not easy to know what is true for you or me at twenty-two, my age. But I...– Langston Hughes, Theme for English B (via lifeontheshelf)
There’s no word for loving more than you should, just the feeling of excess,...– Rebecca Hazelton, from “Love Poem for What It Is” (via leopoldgursky)
I bought plum blossoms more for the name than for the color; I buy lipstick...– Dorothea Grossman, “Untitled” (via larmoyante)
I kissed him passionately, I even wanted to bruise him, so that he would not be...– Françoise Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse (via princess-pantsu)
Find me the sweetest boy, with a heart more hopeful than spun sugar on a hot...– Clementine von Radics (via handcraftedinvirginia)
And I can’t be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.– J.D. Salinger (via drowsybears)
"Peace always reigns in the cemetery..."
“…The dead are dancing at a children’s ball… a lullaby.” -Milan Kundera We made room for our bodies on top of a gravestone, Scraping off leaves like blankets on an unkempt bed. From all the graves we’d picked our favorites, Pressed ourselves into their eroded, wasted names, Consumed by death, and love. Lighting cigarettes on our backs, blowing smoke in and out, We made peace with our air...
Let’s Crawl Into That Photograph & Stay There for...
kathleenjoy: A child came up to me in the park and asked for a cigarette. Her eyes were startled cats, her voice, a chandelier. I don’t smoke, I said. She took a seat beside me on the bench, resting her head against my shoulder. Her hair smelled like an old dictionary cracked open after rain. I want tenderness, she said, as a row of pigeons crashed against the trees like good china.
It’s official. I’M GOING TO NEW YORK!!!
Her heart bounces around from her elbows to her ribs Ricocheting off the sternum and throat like Ice clanking around inside an empty cup. The sun exhales on her neck and Melting cubes fall from her lips, Slip down and her glass hips Crack.