When I was trying to quit smoking
and we drank white wine from Mason jars,
you called my freckles cocoa powder
and I called your green eyes
I am learning how to be a grown-up
who pays bills, cooks her own meals,
and doesn’t cry at words like
I think I just want to be friends.
The truth is this:
Love is an organic thing.
It rots and softens.
Clementine von Radics, All That’s Left To Tell(via bundleofstring)
Anne Carson, from “Kinds of Water” (via weissewiese)
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (via nisanugoo)
“That year, a middle-aged acquaintance asked me what my favorite book was and I said, ‘On The Road.’ He smiled, said, ‘That was my favorite book when I was sixteen.’ At the time, I thought he was patronizing me, that it was going to be my favorite book forever and ever, amen. But he was right. As an adult, I’m more of a Gatsby girl—more tragic, more sad, just as interested in what America costs as what it has to offer.”
— Sarah Vowell
David LaChapelle - After the Deluge: Statue and Museum
apres moi le deluge
Edgar Allan Poe (via obdormio)
Listen, I know there were days you wanted to die
when the sky was so clear
you’d stand obnoxious underneath it
begging for stars to shoot you
just so you could feel at home.
I know about the ways you misplaced all the right words,
stockpiled every important social cue you ever missed
from the first time you learned you were wrong,
waited to make it right
once everyone stopped watching.
I know you let them beat up your beauty in bed
because redemption was still alive in you, howling relentless, gathering strength.
Felt like ecstasy when they pounded it out of you in the hard dark.
Those days of dead weather
got all strung together
and they spoke for you,
wore you down to telling everyone here it was a good life
so you could run back into the wails of your windfight.
I know the parts of your past that haunt you the most
are the days you weren’t being yourself,
and I know that’s why most of your past haunts you.
There were so many who found you out,
and they were right.
You were good.
Buddy Wakefield, “Healing Hermann Hesse” (via beautyisanillusion)