Remember the time
when the covers
on our bed
were the only
shield
and armor
we needed
against
the terrifying
everything
that surrounded
us?
-Tyler Knott Gregson-
(via castamererain)
Covers
The first time I say I love you, your face
crumbles. You look at me
the way man stares in terror
at the stars and the sea.You grasp your head, fist
your hair, hiss, whisper why me
why me I am weak I am
dirt I am dust I am
nothing—Why you? Because
the earth is made of dust
and dirt and you are as
essential to me as earth
is to sky; you give me something
to set my sun against.The dirt and the dust are not
weak. I could build a house
out of you; you are the roof
when I rain.
(Source: whatladybird, via onadarklingplain)
❝ I can’t watch the sea for a long time or what’s happening on land doesn’t interest me anymore.
It’s really weird thinking about how every person you walk by has a name and a personality and a group of friends you’ll never know and a messed up family or an awesome family or that they’re in love or that they’re depressed or are having the best or worst day of their life. There are a lot of people around and I’ll hardly know any of them.
(via somuchawkwardness)
❝
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will some new pleasures prove
Of golden sands, and crystal brooks,
With silken lines, and silver hooks.
There will the river whispering run
Warm’d by thy eyes, more than the sun;
And there the ‘enamour’d fish will stay,
Begging themselves they may betray.
When thou wilt swim in that live bath,
Each fish, which every channel hath,
Will amorously to thee swim,
Gladder to catch thee, than thou him.
If thou, to be so seen, be’st loth,
By sun or moon, thou dark’nest both,
And if myself have leave to see,
I need not their light having thee.
Let others freeze with angling reeds,
And cut their legs with shells and weeds,
Or treacherously poor fish beset,
With strangling snare, or windowy net.
Let coarse bold hands from slimy nest
The bedded fish in banks out-wrest;
Or curious traitors, sleeve-silk flies,
Bewitch poor fishes’ wand’ring eyes.
For thee, thou need’st no such deceit,
For thou thyself art thine own bait:
That fish, that is not catch’d thereby,
Alas, is wiser far than I.
The Bait, John Donne (via wutheringss)
#There is a Wright and Teague ring with a quote from this on #’Of golden sands and crystal brooks’ #If I were ever to be wed #Because it’s Donne #Come on #John Donne #Can charm the pants off anyone ever #It is known
(via wutheringss)
“Snowdrops” by Louise Gluck
Snowdrops, by Louise Gluck
Do you know what I was, how I lived? You know
what despair is; then
winter should have meaning for you.
I did not expect to survive,
earth suppressing me. I didn’t expect
to waken again, to feel
in damp earth my body
able to respond again, remembering
after so long how to open again
in the cold light
of earliest spring -
afraid, yes, but among you again
crying yes risk joy
in the raw wind of the new world.
if you think you were born in the wrong era
1.
fuck off.2.
realize that time machines
were built
for richstraightwhite men who have
never feared walking down
the street at night.3.
smoke cigarettes with the luxury
of knowing that
they’ll kill you someday.4.
throw away your record players
and smash your vinyls into bits
and recognize
that the jagged edges are
nowhere near as rough as the past(also, just fucking download spotify already).
5.
get dressed how you want
and eat what you want
and marry who you want
and learn what you want
just because you can.6.
that whalebone corset looks
prettier tucked away
in the glass case of a museum
than it would wrapped around
your middle
squeezing the breath from your lungs
and the roses blooming in your cheeks.7.
swallow pills instead of
biting your tongue.
you won’t be left in the gutter
or locked away in a tower,
i promise.8.
money was always
hard to come by.9.
if you’re unhappy with where
you are,
go.we can fly, these days.
(Source: readmypalm, via cinaed)
“A Hundred Ways to Say Your Name” by Tania de Rozario
A HUNDRED WAYS TO SAY YOUR NAME
I avoid speaking your name in conversation,
throwing it to the air as if it were nothing
more than an assumption of you; it is my last
mode of defence. The last item of clothing
to discard before I realise I’m naked in public.
Because they can hear it in my voice. I know.
Even in that one short syllable that means
everything and nothing; your name is as common
as you are rare. As easy as you are not.
As simple as love should be, but never is.
But when I’m alone, I tie my tongue softly
round the familiar sound, as if pronouncing
with conviction the phonetics of desire
will cause time to pause just long enough
for the earth to hear me naming my loss.
