feralratattack

[feralratattack]

I don’t understand why my mother can’t seem to see me. It doesn’t make sense because she sees enough of me to comment about things she wishes to change. I have a man’s shoulders and too sturdy a frame. She sees these things. Why can’t she see my face. Why can’t she see the scars I worked so hard to heal, she can’t see herself ripping the stitches. I will never understand my mothers blind spots, how she can’t bother to look over her shoulder before she merges. I thought as you grow, so does the female bond between us. Instead I think she grew younger the more I aged, every year growing farther apart. She can’t see it though. I wonder if I will loose my sight soon. I am nearing the age she started to need glasses.

[feralratattack]

I need to be eaten back into the earth. I need to be a part of it, become nothing and everything at once. I need to be held by every living thing. In need to breath in deep, into the dirt and old. In a place where the pressure becomes a security. Why waste time with panic? Instead take a bite, and eat away at the molten core. Be devoured and devour. Excuse nothing and take in all the muck. I wonder if anyone would be able to see how much earth was stuck in my stomach. I wonder if I could ever fully digest it. I want and need so badly to be fully a part of this lush green world. Yet, my body needs to keep rotting, stuck with stubborn mouthfuls of dirt, and tired hands. I can’t be mad , I know it tastes sweet. It’s my favorite to binge.

[feralratattack]

It has been an awful, terrible, no good spiritual journey and I would like to leave now.

[feralratattack]

We need more creepy and wet lgbt representation

[feralratattack]

I knew a boy once, though not very well, who asked me to tell him a story. Have you ever met a story? If you have, then you already know that all they want is to be told.

And so, I obliged him with a tall-but-true tale of birth and death between blue walls.

The memory of that night still tastes like tequila salt and strangeness slipping away. He came looking for inspiration and got a long walk home with only a head full of ghost stories and the alcohol on his breath for company.

We didn’t talk much after that, only eyeing each other from the same respectful distance as two lone wolves. He had asked me for a story and I had given him one. As far as I was concerned, there was nothing left to say.

Then, one day, the boy must have decided it was time to pay his debts.

From across a crowded room he told me what it feels like to die. I remember it was one of those odd sunny days of false spring, but the way he looked at me as he spoke still rose goosebumps on my warm skin.

“It hurts,” he said. “The going away. Dying. But not as much as coming back.”

On that day, so long after I’d first shown him mine, I finally understood that the boy could have scared me with his own ghost stories, if he had wanted to.

–if you give a girl a ghost story // 4lornly

[feralratattack]

we’re driving our own cars to my least favourite place, with the same album playing loud through our speakers, and i can’t see you but i know you’re smiling wide. nobody could ever get between us on the highway. i let my hazard lights blink - just three times. my back windows light up and repeat the pattern. this could be a fucking movie scene, you know that?

we’re sitting in the living room, the one with too many couches. the one with just enough couches. we fell asleep here for the first time. only i didn’t actually sleep. i guess i was ahead of myself - i got you back in advanced for all the nights i pass out now before you can. i told you to wake me up. i always tell you to wake me up.

now we’re lying in a bath tub with pink water. we’ve listened to two full albums now, our fingers are pruned. my hair is a mess again. i don’t mind too much. the water is getting colder. we don’t seem to notice until we’re ready to get out. we keep saying crazy. and wild. and insane. but. my head screams obvious. meant to be. and fate.

you know what i mean. you always do. you always have. it has been one hundred and thirteen days since i first heard your name. now it plays through my radio, my alarm screams it some mornings. my heart sings it at night. and you hit me like a silent train. i didn’t see you coming, couldn’t have possibly prepared myself for the impact. but you’re here. you’re here. and you’re home. you’re home.

and so home is you. and you know that. you know.

[feralratattack]

I was alive in that moment

As the world collapsed

Love was once dormant

Now it’s back, perhaps

I fell to my knees

Drinking in all the disease

Kill me slowly

I wonder if you’ll remember

I wonder if you’ll remember

[feralratattack]

Life is too easy to fall in and out of love with

[feralratattack]

“I’ll meet you in Paris, inside a house with twenty windows to watch all of France and hours uncounted we’ll use to dance. Void of hatred–in gold, we’re dressed and doused. The black rose squints as morning light pours in, stretches her arms to a sky not yet seen by two wandering, gilded eyes–gleaming, still dreaming, hiding from secrets and sin. ‘Meet me in Paris,’ you said with your hands, the same ones that always told my future. This time in a tangible world, an ending ensues. The black rose is smiling again. This time, time continues to fall over, but memory endures: we’re everlasting.”

— a. h. // a sonnet for june

[feralratattack]

“Make love to me in Spanish. Not with that other tongue. I want you juntito a mí, tender like the language crooned to babies. I want to be that lullabied, mi bien querido, that loved. I want you inside the mouth of my heart, inside the harp of my wrists, the sweet meat of the mango, in the gold that dangles from my ears and neck. Say my name. Say it. The way it’s supposed to be said. I want to know that I knew you even before I knew you.”

— – Sandra Cisneros, “Dulzura,” Loose Woman: Poems  (via finegoodsfinefolk)

[feralratattack]

I refuse to live in constant clouds and shades of gray. To keep a sense of self deep and crowded in false words. To follow just for the sake of moving To dilute my passion for the simple pleasures and percieved plain. I promise to continue loving with abandon. To move for myself and taking time to get distracted. To jump into everything with my whole being, and without looking back. To share my words and state my meaning without the fear of being choked on. Letting my feet hit the ground with quakes and deafening sound, rattling every soul I can manage to find.

[feralratattack]

“Do not fall in love with people like me. I will take you to museums, and parks, and monuments, and kiss you in every beautiful place, so that you can never go back to them without tasting me like blood in your mouth. I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible. And when I leave you will finally understand, why storms are named after people.”

— Caitlyn Siehl (via purplebuddhaquotes)

[feralratattack]

“Each of us has something to do in this lifetime. We all have negative emotions to be purified and positive emotions to be cultivated. All of us need to reconnect to our source and drop our personal stories, don’t we? Men, women, old, young, from here, from there - it is the same. All you can do is your practice. There is nothing else. Don’t get caught up. Don’t stop. We have to learn how to get out or our own way. Because ultimately, the only thing standing in our way is ourselves.”

—

Tenzin Palmo

[feralratattack]

“I know nothing and my heart aches.” - Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet (via the-book-diaries)

[feralratattack]

[feralratattack]

As a child, slave or magus, I've been wanting to rant my deepest secrets and desires.

Like Jesus Christ in the crucifixion, I've wanted to talk about love and sacrifice in my most vulnerable hour, but I've been missing delivery and hit on this mission.

Delighted, subjected, and sometimes confused by extremes and intense feelings, I find myself in front of this paper to clarify everything that makes me the magician in the mountain cave, the goddess woman staining the world, and even the haunted girl seduced by the depth of existence in it's most authentic glow.

[feralratattack]

“Scars. A sign that you had been hurt. A sign that you had healed.”

—

Benjamin Alire Sáenz

(via purplebuddhaquotes)