She didn’t understand
He didn’t do anything to explain
That is how the story ended


She longed to throw something at him. A chair. Herself.
— Loretta Chase, Silk Is For Seduction


Had I told the sea
What I felt for you,
It would have left its shores,
Its shells,
Its fish,
And followed me.
— Nizar Qabbani


It’s like quicksand (this negative tension): the harder I try to diffuse it, the worse it gets. (Intent on hearing things I haven’t said and seeing signs that aren’t there) it’s as if everything I do only serves to exasperate the situation. I suspect it is time I reacquaint myself with the simple truth that you can’t be everybody’s friend and that sometimes it really is best to look right through someone and tell yourself they aren’t there.


But I am slow thinking and full of interior rules that act as brakes on my desires
— F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby


It is far too easy to overlook the solitary raindrop. Not until it falls in a long period of drought do we truly learn to appreciate its life saving qualities.


Without ever realising I was cold, suddenly there it was - this flame, burning brightly and pulling me into its delicious warmth. And just like that, my days had been reduced to an exercise in how not to end up scorched and crumpled at your feet.


Does it feel the same,
the aching endless longing,
does it follow you?
— Daily Haiku on Love by Tyler Knott Gregson


Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn’t stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren’t having any of those
— Sylvia Plath

18th April 2014

Photo reblogged from The Wandering Sheep with 5,457 notes


Free Speech


Free Speech


18th April 2014

Quote reblogged from We Are All Lost Souls with 28,521 notes

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

— It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)

Source: extrasad

18th April 2014

Quote reblogged from wanderer with 704 notes

I belong to you; there is really no other way of expressing it, and that is not strong enough.
— Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice  (via petrichour)

Source: kafkaesque-world

18th April 2014

Quote reblogged from We Are All Lost Souls with 114,125 notes

their high school principal
told me I couldn’t teach
poetry with profanity
so I asked my students,
“Raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Holocaust.”
in unison, their arms rose up like poisonous gas
then straightened out like an SS infantry
“Okay. Please put your hands down.
Now raise your hand if you’ve heard of the Rwandan genocide.”
blank stares mixed with curious ignorance
a quivering hand out of the crowd
half-way raised, like a lone survivor
struggling to stand up in Kigali
“Luz, are you sure about that?”
“That’s what I thought.”

“Carlos—what’s genocide?”

they won’t let you hear the truth at school
if that person says “fuck”
can’t even talk about “fuck”
even though a third of your senior class
is pregnant.

I can’t teach an 18-year-old girl in a public school
how to use a condom that will save her life
and that of the orphan she will be forced
to give to the foster care system—
“Carlos, how many 13-year-olds do you know that are HIV-positive?”

“Honestly, none. But I do visit a shelter every Monday and talk with
six 12-year-old girls with diagnosed AIDS.”
while 4th graders three blocks away give little boys blowjobs during recess
I met an 11-year-old gang member in the Bronx who carries
a semi-automatic weapon to study hall so he can make it home
and you want me to censor my language

“Carlos, what’s genocide?”

your books leave out Emmett Till and Medgar Evers
call themselves “World History” and don’t mention
King Leopold or diamond mines
call themselves “Politics in the Modern World”
and don’t mention Apartheid

“Carlos, what’s genocide?”

you wonder why children hide in adult bodies
lie under light-color-eyed contact lenses
learn to fetishize the size of their asses
and simultaneously hate their lips
my students thought Che Guevara was a rapper
from East Harlem
still think my Mumia t-shirt is of Bob Marley
how can literacy not include Phyllis Wheatley?
schools were built in the shadows of ghosts
filtered through incest and grinding teeth
molded under veils of extravagant ritual

“Carlos, what’s genocide?”

“Roselyn, how old was she? Cuántos años tuvo tu madre cuando se murió?”

“My mother had 32 years when she died. Ella era bellísima.”

…what’s genocide?

they’ve moved from sterilizing “Boriqua” women
injecting indigenous sisters with Hepatitis B,
now they just kill mothers with silent poison
stain their loyalty and love into veins and suffocate them

…what’s genocide?

Ridwan’s father hung himself
in the box because he thought his son
was ashamed of him

…what’s genocide?

Maureen’s mother gave her
skin lightening cream
the day before she started the 6th grade

…what’s genocide?

she carves straight lines into her
beautiful brown thighs so she can remember
what it feels like to heal

…what’s genocide?
…what’s genocide?

“Carlos, what’s genocide?”

“Luz, this…
this right here…
is genocide.”

— Carlos Andres Gomez, What’s Genocide?  (via rampias)

Source: gringoallstar

18th April 2014

Quote reblogged from We Are All Lost Souls with 1,723 notes

Who isn’t crazy sometimes? Who hasn’t driven around a block hoping a certain person will come out; who hasn’t haunted a certain coffee shop, or stared obsessively at an old picture; who hasn’t toiled over every word in a letter, taken four hours to write a two-sentence email, watched the phone praying it will ring; who doesn’t lay awake at night sick with the image of her sleeping with someone else?
— We Live in Water: Stories (Jess Walter)

Source: wordsthat-speak

18th April 2014

Quote reblogged from We Are All Lost Souls with 54 notes

There are some that only employ words for the purpose of disguising their thoughts.
— Voltaire  (via rampias)

Source: the-sea-in-a-storm

18th April 2014

Quote reblogged from wanderer with 152 notes

Wisdom comes to us when it can no longer do any good.
— Gabriel García Márquez (Love In The Time Of Cholera)

Source: a-thousand-words

18th April 2014

Quote reblogged from Poetry with 134 notes

If I knew that today would be the last time I’d see you, I would hug you tight and pray the Lord be the keeper of your soul. If I knew that this would be the last time you pass through this door, I’d embrace you, kiss you, and call you back for one more. If I knew that this would be the last time I would hear your voice, I’d take hold of each word to be able to hear it over and over again. If I knew this is the last time I see you, I’d tell you I love you, and would not just assume foolishly you know it already.
— Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez (via kushtrimthaqi)

18th April 2014

Photoset reblogged from Damaged Goods with 46,280 notes

Source: andrewgarfielddaily

18th April 2014

Quote reblogged from Cody Lee with 7,407 notes

I am half agony, half hope.
Jane Austen (via intomymindseye)

Source: rabbitinthemoon