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[petricalore]

sun//light

[petricalore]

fire

[petricalore]

my mama bought some mangoes in july, and they just sat there, colourful temptation perched on the kitchen counter. in this sweltering heat, nobody reached for them. they were too sweet, too sticky, too much. not from the right place, not the right shape. unchosen, untouched, they waited. and in that waiting, they withered, surrendering to the slow creep of time. overripe and tender to begin with, they grew bitter day by day. they longed to be touched, cherished, consumed — it was their entire purpose. i watched them turn, black spots blooming like dark flowers as rot spread its fingers through their flesh. i passed by them every morning and afternoon and night, a witness to their slow demise. i told my mother to eat her mangoes before it would be too late. i begged her, at one point. they were meant for more, to be savored, their sweetness a gift. but no one listened, and no one came. so i watched and watched, and yet. they went discarded, remnants of a season too hot for joy, their longing to be devoured unfulfilled.

my purpose: to be loved; to be known. i feel like i could be one of those mangoes, sometimes.

— petricalore

[petricalore]

september 8th... 1973. september 8th, 1973. it was 11:07 here. it would have been 9:07 in san francisco. armand called me. were you there? did you hurt yourself?

[petricalore]

morozko from the winternight trilogy ❄️

[petricalore]

I want to sleep with you, fall asleep and sleep. That magnificent folk word, how deep, how true, how unequivocal, how exactly what it says. Just—sleep. And nothing more. No, one more thing: my head buried in your left shoulder, my arm around your right one—and that’s all. No, another thing: and know right into the deepest sleep that it is you. And more: how your heart sounds. And—kiss your heart.

Marina Tsvetaeva, in a letter to Rainer Maria Rilke featured in Letters: Summer 1926

[petricalore]

THE MOON KNOWS MY WEAKNESSES / and it treats me kindly anyway

[petricalore]

hades is the smell of the cold winter mornings, the smell of the pavement after it has rained, and the lingering scent left on your clothes after a camp fire. he holds your hand as you cross the street, watches the moon with you, and is sitting beside you on long car rides. he is both the coldness of your room at night and the warmth of your bed after a long day.

aphrodite is the smell of rose petals and your newest fragrance. she is the smell of the fog after a nights rain and the odour given off while romantic sex is taking place. she is the taste of your lovers lips and the feeling of your own skin after a shower. she is the butterflies in your stomach, and always has your name on the tip of her tongue. she is the one who sends you your next relationship and ends the bad ones. 

poseidon is the smell of the moist air as the water rolls over the rocks near a lake. he is the smell of the mud in a play ground and the scent of your newest body wash. he’s the one who stares back at you as you stare beyond the horizon of the sea. he is the feeling you get when you jump into a pool after being in a hot tub or sauna. 

apollo is the smell of breakfast cooking in the morning and wet wood. he is the split second of pain in your eyes from the light after being in the dark for long periods. he is the summers day spent at a park, and the excitement of remembering lyrics of your new favourite song.

artemis is the natural smell of your hair. she is both the smell of bark on a tree and your fingers after picking up a wet rock. she gives you grass stains on your pants, and blows your hair in the wind. she finds your favourite places to go and guards your place to sit. 

ares is the smell of your sweat. he smells like sand and is the scent of your father. he feels like slate and the pain of a bruise. he is the one who pushes you that one extra step, and forces you to lose your cool.

zeus smells like fire. he smells like the cold wind and your freshly washed sheets. he is the one who makes your heart pound and is the one who triggers your anxieties. he is the booming of loud music and the cracking of the floor boards at night. he watches you as you walk home in the rain.

- anonymous author 

[petricalore]

“i. atlas wears his skin like it is golden to hide how black his insides are. ii. the boy is a god who fights wars in his dreams because he has grown tired of spilling his own blood in his nightmares. iii. it begins like this: rotting heart grows into an apple tree and plants decaying roots deep in his shoulders. it ends like this: he begs to be cut down and nobody dares to bring him a knife. iv. irony tastes sharp and sweet; this grief is heavier than the weight of the world. v. at night a sky full of stars promises that one day he will burn too.”

— why love a boy who is destined to fall? // t.e. (via prcserpina)

[petricalore]

my mama bought some mangoes in july, and they just sat there, colourful temptation perched on the kitchen counter. in this sweltering heat, nobody reached for them. they were too sweet, too sticky, too much. not from the right place, not the right shape. unchosen, untouched, they waited. and in that waiting, they withered, surrendering to the slow creep of time. overripe and tender to begin with, they grew bitter day by day. they longed to be touched, cherished, consumed — it was their entire purpose. i watched them turn, black spots blooming like dark flowers as rot spread its fingers through their flesh. i passed by them every morning and afternoon and night, a witness to their slow demise. i told my mother to eat her mangoes before it would be too late. i begged her, at one point. they were meant for more, to be savored, their sweetness a gift. but no one listened, and no one came. so i watched and watched, and yet. they went discarded, remnants of a season too hot for joy, their longing to be devoured unfulfilled.

my purpose: to be loved; to be known. i feel like i could be one of those mangoes, sometimes.

— petricalore

[petricalore]

Quinto Bookshop, London

[petricalore]

Anna Akhmatova, from The Complete Poems; “We Don't Know How to Say Goodbye,”

[petricalore]

The path isn’t a straight line; it’s a spiral. You continually come back to things you thought you understood and see deeper truths.

Barry H. Gillespie

[petricalore]

Everyone is so weird about people who cry easily. Fellas, is it evil and manipulative to *checks notes* have an involuntary stress response?

[petricalore]

[petricalore]

–Emily Dickinson

[petricalore]

Anaïs Nin, from a novel titled "A Spy in the House of Love," published in 1954