michaelfaudet:

Rendezvous by Michael Faudet

michaelfaudet:

Rendezvous by Michael Faudet

"Everything is exaggeration, the only truth is longing."

Franz Kafka, from Letters To Milena (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via lifeinpoetry)


"You had best run back to your room, little sister. Septa Mordane will surely be lurking. The longer you hide, the sterner the penance. You’ll be sewing all through winter. When the spring thaw comes, they will find your body with a needle still locked tight between your frozen fingers." (A Game of Thrones, Arya I)

(Source: spliffsaremagic)

"Everybody is nothing until you love them."

Tennessee Williams, The Rose Tattoo (via oofpoetry)

I want to love you, but you look more like the mailman everyday

garycrispinsdailyraisin:

Cock hard and plastic wedding rings at the circus in a cage where motorcycles loop the loop and fish jump in the shimmering sea where saltine crackers dry your mouth and the sun is the same but looks different everyday and babies cry on airplanes but owls come out at night and thats comforting like a ballerina falling on her face or bears that smell vaginal blood from two miles away roaring in the forests where secrets hide with crickets in a broken glass garage where I fought back with broomsticks like that girl who impaled herself while masterbating and seashells don’t really sound like anything but sodomy is a sad truth so I smoke cigarettes to smell better and lick frozen lamps to get out of a bind like that kid in a christmas story who ate duck with his family and remember that time we hula hooped and hackey sacked in lithia park where hippies walk on tightropes but you don’t need a house to feel at home so I smile back at strangers because I guess were all a little weird and its comforting to know you’re living a life of lies because popcorn sounds come from microwaves and fish get radioactive in oceans but I pooped in a lake once and i think it was that summer we swang on stop signs because pole dancing and emo music were in at the time so we strolled through a danish village drinking monster and wearing checkered vans because every time I sneeze I forget to open my eyes and see rainbow halos around lights after swimming in chlorinated pools of water where you swam with a full leg cast and your fingers bled cuz you punched a chainlink fence but it was punk rock and I guess it healed because youre pretty good at playing the guitar now and it doesn’t make munch sense but I guess the meaning of life is finding meaning from seemingly unrelated ideas like those 7 dollar chicken strips you ate with ranch dressing and fashion models from Cambodia.

mynameiselly:

I want to undress 
language with you,
speak in less than 
full sentences, 

blurt out single words
like “love” instead of 
"I love you," and strip
phrases raw,

only talking in
sentiments and 
feelings.

"Much more likely you’ll hurt me. Still what does it matter? If I’ve got to suffer, it may as well be at your hands, your pretty hands."

Jean-Paul Sarte, No Exit (via easymomentsandobsession)

(Source: basedgodkanye, via g1rthbrooks)

i think i’m gonna start doing this blog again. i’m gonna start queuing today but it’ll be slowing goings at first. sorry. i’ve just been kind of dying on a personal, not health level. now back to the literature.

WHEN SADNESS COMES

sierrademulder:

it is as familiar as a sister. She fills the bathtub, unravels my clothing into a heap on the floor. She sits on the toilet, painting her toenails, singing my favorite songs, while I soak. She has the most beautiful voice. The phone rings and rings and I let it just lay there screaming for help. Or it doesn’t and I watch it sit silent as the dead on my dresser. She doesn’t want to go out tonight. I beg her, tell her she can wear anything in my closet. She tells me no baby girl, no, not tonight, maybe tomorrow. There is a refrigerator full of food. I want none of it.


- Sierra DeMulder

"

We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom.

We lived in the gaps between stories.

"

The Handmaid’s Tale, Margaret Atwood (via stannisbaratheon)

(via yourpretendfriend)