loversasuke

[loversasuke]

1. excerpts from my diary, inkedpoet 2. in the dream house, carmen maria machado 3. gojo yubari, kill bill vol. 1 / 4. title unknown, solitary-sister 5. bleeding love by leona lewis 6 + 7. blood feast, herschell gordan lewis, 1963 8. bloodstream by stateless 9. anna de noailles tr., norman r. shapiro, from poems; “dazzled, precise,”. 10. image source unknown.

[loversasuke]

good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

[loversasuke]

the unholy urge to be either highly loved or highly feared

[loversasuke]

i think u should hold me down n fuck me until i cry

[loversasuke]

“When sleep seems impossible, the moon and I speak of you often. She hears me cry into the darkness of my room and illuminates the depths of my pain like she does the night sky.

I tell the moon that when we met, my gravity shifted. I tell her that my world has not been the same since and that every time I walk, I still feel the remnants of the damage you left in the soles of my feet. They burn and ache with something that feels like I have spent too much time chasing after a you that has come and gone all too quick.

I tell the sky that you were never perfect to me. Never once.

In fact, when we first met, you were very clearly broken.

The scars you carried were not evident to the average person, but I recognized the heaviness in your eyes from a mile away. That was the first thing I noticed about you. The fact that your eyes seemed to carry stories, novels of pain and hurt that my fingers itched to open and trace the pages of.

I tell the stars I know I should stop wasting wishes on boy who never gave a fuck about the girl who would have done anything for him.

The stars and the sky listen to my sadness, my sadness apparently so potent and tangible, that they feel it from galaxies away. The stars appear one after the other and sigh wistfully at me. The only sympathy the sky seems to offer is that of making sure the heavens pour down as much water to match the tears that endlessly pour out of my eyes.

The moon, however, seems to empathize with me with the type of ease that sounds like it comes from a lifetime of experience of dealing with devastation and misery.

The moon tells me that I am not the first to want something I know I cannot have.

I tell her that I know I am not the first to have my heart break viciously into two and that I will certainly not be the last. I tell her in between sobs that I do not want you. That the only thing I want is some fucking answers to a whole lot of questions.

I want to know why I still think about you first thing in the morning, memories of us flashing in my mind at random, and constantly haunting my dreams. I need to know why the thought of you tracing patterns into my skin keeps me up at night, and that my recurring nightmare is the reality of me still somehow searching for your face in the crowds of random people.

I do not want to care for you.

Why the fuck should I care for the boy who told me he was scared to fall in love with me? Who did not even bother to try and stay, but instead broke my heart into a million pieces and ran away? I tell the moon the only thing I care to know is why when it comes down to you, despite all odds, even though you fucked my best friend, even though you did not want to fight with me, for me and instead found something I could not give you in other women, that despite all of that, I still hope for something, anything when it comes to us.

I tell the moon that I thought I had outgrown this feeling. I tell her that I feel pathetic, useless, and weak and want answers to why I am still that same little girl who apologizes excessively, wants the ones who never want her back and clings to bad habits like they set me free, rather than hold me down.

Instead of answering me, the moon tells me about the sun, her first and only true love. She tells me about the tragedy of how they spend the majority of their lives apart, only to both long for the rare moments they share together in the sky.

She tells me that the sun is the most beautiful thing she has ever encountered yet remains the most painful thing of all. That it almost hurts to look at him, let alone think of him constantly.

The moon laughs something bright and bold at me calling myself pathetic, useless, and weak. The moon tells me how she begs gravity every night to roughly pull at the tides of the ocean just for the slight chance that in the morning, the sun will see traces of her left upon the sand. Just to remind him that she exists.

Brokenly and at the end of my wits, I ask the moon the secret to loving someone you can never be with, I ask the moon how she lives with it, how she copes.

The moon tells me that no matter how heartbroken the two of them are at being apart, they still shine every day and night. Because above all, they love themselves more, they know they serve purpose in this life, that we all individually serve a purpose in this life and I would be wise to never forget it.

I will not forget it.

I cannot forget it."

(excerpt from “the love poem of all love poems” by maria m. you can find the full version of this poem here)

[loversasuke]

hello beloveds! if y’all could pretty pls do me a favour and go check out my recently published poem. it is a piece of poetry extremely personal and important to me, and i have never publicly released any of my work so (internal screaming) it would mean a lot <33

[loversasuke]

craving hate sex

[loversasuke]

via stenss on instagram

[loversasuke]

[loversasuke]

[loversasuke]

Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband

[loversasuke]

IN THE MOOD FOR LOVE (2000) dir. Wong Kar-wai

[loversasuke]

[loversasuke]

wough

[loversasuke]

[loversasuke]

[loversasuke]