#Heart Typography

[flowerytale]

Edgar Allan Poe, from a letter to Mrs. Maria Clemm, July 1849

[dumblr]

[bebs-art-gallery]

Dear Desolation by Eliran Kantor † Love of the Wolf by Hélène Cixous

[feral-ballad]

Amy Lowell, from A dome of many-coloured glass; “Before the Altar”

[Text ID: “I pour my heart and watch it burn,”]

[academia-lucifer]

Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book.

— John Green.

[soracities]

Dunya Mikhail, from Diary of a wave outside the sea (trans. Elizabeth Winslow and Dunya Mikhail) [ID'd]

[becomingvecna]

[mournfulroses]

Vladimir Mayakovsky, from a letter featured in "Love in the Heart of Everything; The Correspondence between Vladimir Mayakovsky & Lili Brik, 1915-1930,"

[bebx]

words by me

╰┈➤ pairing: Victor Von Doom & Reed Richards

[sfsolstice]

Anaïs Nin, in a letter to Henry Miller, d. March 26, 1932, from A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953

[petaltexturedskies]

Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Vita Sackville-West dated 7 October 1928

[flowerytale]

Li-Young Lee, from I Loved You Before I Was Born, The Undressing: Poems

[ivynightshade]

fatima aamer bilal, from coffin heart? bury me.

[text id: how did you get so close that i have to dissect you out from under my skin? / memory is a deathbed. remembrance is a grave. the memory of you is a scab that i keep picking so that it scars. a burn, a souvenir, something to claw at that claws back at me. / i refuse to be haunted by something less. / there's a sun-sized ache where your hands used to be. / and now that your place is empty, the blood in my heart pumps around nothing. / nothing. / nothing at all. / senseless circulation. / what am i to live for when i have made my body my casket? / where am i to go from here? / and i always knew longing had another name she wouldn't let me call her by — it's hunger. / my heart grew up to be far more starved than my stomach. / it's the things you learn in your childhood, from the words of your mother, from the hands of your father. / if your teeth do not graze my bones, i do not wish for you to kiss me. / how have i turned gentle love into such devastation? / such greediness? / i carry a coffin for a heart; everything i love must be buried. / plant your garden in the cracks of my skin—mud, gravel, everything. let my blood be water to cater to your needs. / terrible, terrible human, thinks barbarity and love are words of the same meaning. / a mad dog would be a far more gentle lover to the rocks being thrown at him. / and, my dear, i wouldn't ask you to fold me in the pages of your favorite book, just the embedment of fingers between my ribs. / how did you get so close that i have to dissect you out from under my skin? / GET CLOSER.]

[diorsiren]

[feral-ballad]

Alda Merini, tr. by Susan Stewart, from Love Lessons: Selected Poems of Alda Merini; “The cry of death”

[Text ID: “heart made of rot and solitude”]

[academia-lucifer]

What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it. That doesn't happen much, though.

— J.D. Salinger.