dustghosts

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the front bottoms, twin size mattress // @rbhvleo​ on tumblr // richard siken, crush (little beast) // taylor swift, cruel summer // unknown source // ada limón, bright dead things //  margaret atwood, we are hard // ocean vuong, on earth we’re briefly gorgeous // @normal-horoscopes​ on tumblr // halsey, trouble (stripped) //  richard siken, crush (scheherazade) // louise glück // richard siken, a primer for small weird loves // unknown source 

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Margaret Atwood, The Animals in That Country; from ‘Speeches for Dr Frankenstein’

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“I have always tried to make a home for myself, but I have not felt at home in myself. I have worked hard at being the hero of my own life, but every time I checked the register of displaced persons, I was still on it. I didn’t know how to belong. Longing? Yes. Belonging? No.”

— Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal?

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Kenneth Rexroth, from Sacramental Acts: Love Poems; When we with Sappho

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Say something pretty about it. I dare you. Something pretty. (Break it.) Something pretty. (Kill it.)

Ada Limón, from Sharks in the Rivers

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The death / you owed me, I / carry it / out.

— Paul Celan, from ���[Reflection-laden],” Breathturn into Timestead, tr. Pierre Joris (via lifeinpoetry)

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the gardener, mary oliver

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What is it about night walks...I looked into the orange light of someone’s window and felt the deepest sense of peace I’ve ever had

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Ocean Vuong, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous

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I saw violence in anything with a face. I wished for a place big enough for grief & all I got was more grief

— Chen Chen, from “How I Became Sagacious,” in When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities

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Mary Oliver, "October." Devotions

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Soon we will be strangers. No, we can never be that. Hurting someone is an act of reluctant intimacy. We will be dangerous acquaintances with a history.

— Hanif Kureishi, Intimacy and Midnight All Day: A Novel and Stories

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Undersong, ‘The Evening News’ (1979) by Audre Lorde

[ID: any wound will stop bleeding / if you press down / hard enough.]

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“I don’t know what I want, only that I’m desperate for it, that I can’t stop asking.”

— Kim Addonizio, from “The Singing”

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Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

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pain busies itself. // Mourning, gone awry. // Melancholy, put up with anew, / finds its level.

— Paul Celan, from “[Unkept],” Breathturn into Timestead, tr. Pierre Joris (via lifeinpoetry)

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jenny slate, little weirds // john keats, letter to fanny brawne // richard siken, planet of love