There has got to be a name for that condition of destruction in which an object becomes more fragile the more it is admired. It’s the early violence that I am glad to miss. To imagine a string pulling the top of my head up and in line with my leg—a love ly smile of abjection takes the strain. A wretched joke of community. A ceremonial shard. A cyclical cut. A pose of tight thighs bleeding forever. I’d been neglected to have been told of a snake below my belly that communes with the moon and the waves. It sheds its skin, it eats its tail. It knows too much about me.
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“It is so lonely to feel deeply about the world and be met with the complete failure of language to communicate it. Poetry gets us marginally (but importantly!) closer than rhetorical language, like how standing on a roof gets one a few feet closer to grabbing a star than standing in the dirt. It makes the loneliness of being here a little easier to bear.”
— Kaveh Akbar, “Galloping Towards Delight: A Conversation with Kaveh Akbar and Ilya Kaminsky”, published in Magma Issue 83, Solitude, Summer 2022 (via kitchen-light)
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Flora Yukhnovich (British, b. 1990), Tu vas me faire rougir [You’ll Make Me Blush], 2017. Oil on linen, 215 x 180 cm.
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Love and snowflake-shaped kisses from me.
Edna St. Vincent Millay in a letter to Eugen Jan Boissevain, 1932 (via pinkballerinas)
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Never stop being a good person because of bad people.
Unknown
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Ellie Grist photographed by Rachell Smith for Glass Magazine February 2022
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There is true beauty in the symmetry and asymmetry of nature.
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Circling back around to check out this mountain oasis.
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