"I demand unconditional love and complete freedom. That is why I am terrible."
— Tomaž Šalamun (via wanduring)

(Source: kitty-en-classe)

I am every terrible absolute you have ever heard of. I am the lover driven mad, and I am the cold man with frozen veins. So often I am the latter, distant and removed, an observer to all the events I am supposed to be a part of, until my heart explodes and my limbs are freed by the sudden rush of blood. My eyes open and I weep with joy for trees and sunlight, for the good things. I am the man with the blindfold, who stumbles on the things I have gained. I am unquenchable, I have a thirst that cannot be slaked by hello, I squeeze and twist and push until I want to say goodbye. I will worship the ground you walk on, and then I will watch you walk away. I am insomnia and the coming comatose. I will leap tall buildings and then collapse under the expectations. I feel guilty for these extremes, I always wonder how I can be all of my opposites, all at the same time. I don’t talk to myself, but there are two people inside me engaged in a constant debate about every thought I think. Every feeling makes me sick and every idea keeps me awake at night.

I am passion and indifference, I am bold and I am silent. I love you with the burning intensity of a sun with no planets.

(Source: mister-selfdestruct)

"

I love you because I would be devastated if someone else got to have you. I would race from both ends of my devastation like a worried dog, pacing the space you left and wondering who was holding you against them at night. I would die that way, at the bottom of a ten hundred foot hole I wore into the ground from wanting you. I love you jealously and with a fever that boils on the surface of my skin like water in hot oil. Loving you feels like racing to the top of a mountain—pointless but an exhilarating accomplishment. I read once that we love the way we want to be loved, and until I met you I didn’t understand, because before you I had never really loved before.

Now I get it. Now, I think I finally know.

"

 Kristen Fiore // The Hound and The Mountain 

#reblogging old feelings

(via girlvswhale)
Tags | sigh |
"“She is a year ago.She is the ache in the empty,the first time you changed your mindand the last time you were sorry about it.She is a city sleeping beside you,warm and vast and familiar, streetlightsyawning and stretching,and you have never. You have never.You have never loved someone like this.She is your first stomach ache.Your first panic attack and yourfavorite cold shower.A mountain is moving somewhereinside of you, and her handprints are all over it.Here. Here. Here, you love her.In the fractured morning, full oftoo tired and too sad, she is the firstfoot that leaves the bed.She is the fight in you, the winning and the losing battlefloating like a shipwreck in your chest.When they ask you what your favorite moment is, You will say Her. You will always say Her.” — Caitlyn Siehl, Her, Her, Her"
noonesnemesis:

Ms Pamela Green
photo by Joan Craven
1955

noonesnemesis:

Ms Pamela Green

photo by Joan Craven

1955

Everything.

shadow-writer:

“What do you want?”

I want everything, all of it. Without conditions and without compromise. I want it loud and I want it fast and I want it hard .I want it to consume me, to drown me, to lift me up and to let me fly. I want to be awed by it, repulsed by it, tested by it and challenged by it. I want everything. No limits, no questions, no guilt, no regrets.

“I just want to be happy.”

"

Too many men look at me like I owe them something, like the word ‘beautiful’ should mean something to me just because that’s how they choose to describe me. Too many men think that the black heels I wear to the grocery store is my way of saying, “Look at my legs. Do you like the way my dress hugs my curves?” When the truth is I just got off work and need some fucking beer and bread. Don’t look at me like that, the only reason my lips are painted red is because I ran out of Chapstick and this was the only thing I could find in my car.

I once dated a man who said that for Valentine’s Day all he wanted was me in red lace. He said that I would taste like chocolate, that he wanted to show me just how good love can feel. He talked like his sex skills were the best gift he could give me. I wore black lace and showed him how it feels to be fucked harder than the night he lost his virginity to a stripper. He said I tasted like mystery and black coffee as he got down on his knees to find his boxers. He said he couldn’t find the taste of chocolate on my neck. That was the morning he realized that being a man had nothing to do with ‘how hard you can fuck’. If that was the case, I would be ten foot tall and bullet proof and one hell of a guy with nice boobs.

One time I fell into the arms of a drunk man in the backseat of his car, he claimed that he loved me afterwards. He called me a bitch when I said I just wanted to be his friend. I told him if me giving him my friendship made me a bitch then me giving him my heart would make me a cunt from hell. That was the day I stopped kissing boys who had to prove that they were men and started holding hands with men who didn’t realize they turned heads when they walked by.

Love rests in the heart and is spilled from your throat.
Lust rests in your pants and prefers to not ask for a name.
One day those men will realize that sincere, kind words
are the way to a woman’s heart, not a good fucking.
One day those men will realize that their Adam’s apple
is the forbidden fruit,
not their dick.

"
— when he asks what drawer you keep your lingerie in//d.a.h
(via whisperingbones)

Anonymous asked: I think I would like to know you. To see your mind. Walk through it--maybe hand-in-hand. Maybe not.

It’s not that exciting. I once had a mind reader examine me. He took pen and paper and wrote down everything he saw. What he wrote, is as follows:

.

…..

.
!

"It’s not all bad. Heightened self-consciousness, apartness, an inability to join in, physical shame and self-loathing—they are not all bad. Those devils have been my angels. Without them I would never have disappeared into language, literature, the mind, laughter and all the mad intensities that made and unmade me."
— Stephen Fry, Moab Is My Washpot (via observando)
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