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Worship of the Female Form by Alméry Lobel-Riche

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developed a real fondness lately for characters who experience a horrific act of violence and come out the other side saying "ah. I don't think I get to be me anymore. they took out the part that was me, killed it, and put something else back in its place, and now I'm whoever the hell that is." love it when someone becomes a corpse and replaces themself <3

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its gonna be nothing like you planned

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The Fox Who Steals Books 📕

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obsessed with john waters parents, they were funnier than him!

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Hey maybe you guys should stop writing for the Addams family cause you don't get them at all.

Imagine my girl Morticia saying that shit in any other portrayal? NO? Because she wouldn't.

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For a brief moment in time humans weren't alone on this planet. I do wonder if our ancestors took note when Neanderthals disappeared, or if they ever wondered where these people went

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🩺

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Mila von Luttich (Austrian, 1872 - 1929)

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what does your blood taste like to a vampire

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At the end of my poem "The Visitor," there is the line "There is nothing one man will not do to another." It's a truth that I recognized in great pain and horror, but once you know this truth, it's possible to also know that there is nothing one man will not give another, too. We are beings in process, in a deep spiritual process that we recognize and intuit and do not understand at all. It gives me great hope and great faith that it's possible to understand this in a single human lifetime. If we live long enough, if we are given enough time on earth, we can live to see the spiritual potential of human beings.

Carolyn Forché, "Infinite Obligation to the Other" from A God in the House: Poets Talk about Faith, ed. Ilya Kaminsky and Katherine Towler

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sometimes men are obsessed with other men not because theyre secretly gay but because theyre so misogynistic that they literally dont view women as people worthy of any degree of attention or value

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“And I saw it didn’t matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds–nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries of men who called out my name as they entered me, I finally believed I was alone, felt it in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo like a thin bell. And the sounds came back, the slish of tires and footsteps, all the delicate cargo they carried saying thank you and yes. So I paid and climbed into my car as if nothing had happened– as if everything mattered–What else could I do?”

— Dorianne Laux, from ‘After Twelve Days of Rain’, What We Carry: Poems