de-morte:

“I was sleeping on a bed of knives, that kept cutting my flesh of sorrows. Indignant, the blade, laced with the thirst for blood, my blood; that I call a blue venom. These unbent knives, these bartered reminders of my shadow filled sighs, I am a ghost in my own bed, I am already dead.”

— Channing M, The Monochrome of Darkness

lifeinpoetry:

“My friend’s heart is perfume. I eat her heart with care.”

— Dorothea Lasky, from “Your Heart,” Awe

lifeinpoetry:

“They kept asking me, ‘What does the poem mean? What does the poem mean?’ And it was frustrating me because poems don’t mean. They suggest. They enact. They provoke.”

— Richard Siken (via egracely)

lifeinpoetry:

“When I touch her, my fingers don’t question what she is. My body knows who she is. The strange thing about strangers is that they are unknown and known. There is a pattern to her, a shape I understand, a private geometry that numbers mine. She is a maze where I got lost years ago, and now find the way out. She is the missing map. She is the place that I am. She is a stranger. She is the strange that I am beginning to love.”

— Jeanette Winterson, The Stone Gods (via podencos)

(Source: hellanne)

thatantisocialbitch:

“You can romanticize me all you wish, but the devil wrapped in silk is still the devil.”

— A Word To My Lovers