selkielore:

from the mirror test by melissa febos

(via bloedkoraal)

junglejim4322:

dollnursery:

@papayajuan2019

bloedkoraal:

Once, drunk, I said I hated
men’s hands, how dirty they are,
how they put all that dirt inside you.
Listening to Skrillex on the drive down
from Saratoga I think on how I love you,
but how I love driving more:
the speed, the blur, how nice it feels
to exist outside of time. How like death.
I’ve always loved a good dream.
But now I want something real.
It took you the full forty-five minutes
from Kingston, wrists balanced
on the wheel, to work the resin out
from under your nails with a blade.
Later, you made a joke about it,
but I’d never seen your hands so clean.

— Catherine Pond

transformational:

“gravestone in pet cemetery, lisbon” (1998) by nan goldin

(via bienenkiste)

bloedkoraal:

I love my brother. He had the exact same childhood as I did.
But he doesn’t get credit for it. He isn’t the writer. I am
the star of the violence. I expose. My Peter, when he marries,
I will be so sad. No girl in the world deserves him but me.

— Rachel McKibbens, I Forget Who I Said It To, But I Remember How, Afterwards, They Looked at Me As Though I Had Driven A Steak Knife Through Their Mother’s Hand

shi-saa:

“May: the lilacs are in bloom. Forget yourself.”

— Marty Rubin

(Source: crimsonkismet, via angelmilk)

jinxproof:

Kelly Macdonald | Trainspotting (1996)
dir. Danny Boyle

derangedrhythms:

I could love you violently, if I let myself.

Sylvia Plath, quoting an acquaintance in ‘The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath’

(via bloedkoraal)

soracities:

“Do you lose your temper easily? I don’t on the whole, but when I do, I really feel closer to God than at other times.”

— Franz Kafka, from a letter to Milena Jesenská written c. October 1919 (via conceptvals)

(via unspokengrief)

buttonpoetry:

“Peach pits are poisonous. This is not a mistake. Girlhood is growing fruit around cyanide. It will never be yours for the swallowing.”

— Brenna Twohy, from Swallowtail

(via bloedkoraal)