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Sarah! Where can I read that poetry! Omg

I haven’t released that collection yet because I wanted to be able to print it! I’ve been so busy with a new job :/ but if you check my “w” tag i have a lot of my pieces there! I’ve been releasing some stuff under a secret pen name too 🕵🏻‍♀️

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Allison Wade, Break-Up Texts

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Allison Wade, ‘It’s Not You’

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“I’m writing to tell you it hurts. On the best days, he tastes like too much red wine and it’s only now that it is easier for him to tell you he loves you— to tell you what you wait/deserve/want to hear. After the bar, he fairytales into late night laughter and falling asleep bare-skinned. These have become the best nights, and my sweetheart, they come so seldom. It is now that you avoid eye contact with the letters you wrote to yourself at fifteen; how she would shake her fists and tell me she grew up to be stronger than this– that we didn’t bruise to become softer, we didn’t love so damn hard because we wanted silence. More than I can paint in letters, this hurts. After you, I don’t know if I’ll ever trust again. After you, is a life I never pictured.”

— Schuyler Peck, I Will Cross This River

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Nashville, 1963, Lee Friedlander

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Veronica Lake’s hair had a whole article published in Life Magazine on November 24th 1941 due to her breakthrough role in I Wanted Wings which publicised her famous peekaboo hair. 

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medusa (1892), alice pike barney

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Chasseresse (1920), Romaine Brooks

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Jason Martin, As Yet Untitled (Ultramarine blue), 2015

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Leda (Detail), 2015 - Gail Potocki

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“Permanent Water”

You just texted me two cock pics It used to be more artful The way you did it, the composition. Like last week. It just stopped raining. I have a cold quicksilver feeling. I could put this in a place where you could find it But I am hiding it here.

One time I wanted you to call me So I held my blackberry to my forehead.

Why am I so stupid. Do you know why? World,  Nothing could possibly be said of you that wouldn’t Be true. Sometimes I think about the internet And what it means to be ugly and my fantasy Of transparency like a see-through Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Transparency, gift Of love that would be an ultimate, total greatness When I look into the smooth floes

When you tell me You love me And I have To believe you. You’re gonna Get sick of me You said, standing On my bed. All that is said Just because It is said In a climate Oppressive In its equivalencies Is not so little To be only The equal Of itself I say To myself.

I went to a store to return some shoes I bought on a day I felt confused. I exchanged them for some cheaper ones that made me feel Like a new woman even though the store Made me feel like dying and I should know Better and I do know better But still. If there were nothing But the slightest aspiration in my flesh toward a heaven I would love you people just the way you are. Instead I will dress up like a woman of a certain type For you. I don’t want your love or to be good To you at all and I don’t want to feel The way you are.

I read the sonnets Of Shakespeare today. Not all of them are great. It made me wonder what it was like at night For him, or Isaac Newton or whoever he was Or they were, but the name of him. I sort Of think either he wrote them all drunk And one in every fifteen or twenty was great Just effortlessly, or he was in some kind of sick Brooding obsession with his own ugliness Wishing he could just look beautiful and not have To say so in the light of his man, whom he nags In more ways than one to make babies. The permanent decreptitude of authors Dying on the breast of fugitive beauty is a subject I shall not transubstantiate. Basically it’s too Gay for me. Maybe not. I bore A hole in myself at the thought of my lord you. Go with me. Drag me down To your level, just do it. Try. If we ever get there I swear To you I’ll be faithful

- Ariana Reines

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Paris apartment | photos by Sandra Rojo

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Jean leFebure (Canadian, 1930-2013), Abstraction, 1966. Oil on canvas, 60 x 72 cm.

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Horace Vernet - The Maiden’s Lament /detail/