vrzel-kuu-blog

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May has daffodil eyes, tastes of spring water. She is a spring tantrum. Hail ricochets off her bones. Petals form a nest around her heart. She swallows wisps of clouds, stains her fingers with wild berries. Weaves poison ivy through her hair. She never wants to be anything soft or disposable. She has honeyed skin, vanilla mouth. Sugar sweet girl. Broken glass wedged in between fists. Holds her breath, drains the pink from her cheeks. Turns herself blue. Says, I was never built for spring. I am the skeletons in the closet. The ghosts in the basement. I am the outcast, dressed up like a pageantry.

May Pt. II, Angelea Lowes (via angelealowes)

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It's been a while, I hope you've been well.

I have for the most part! What about you? How’s everything?

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via weheartit

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These words I say to you are sunflowers singing to the sun.

Frederick Seidel, from “Early Sunday Morning in the Cher,” These Days (Alfred A. Knopf, 1989)

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so youre gone

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Dreamy lavender

Instagram 

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“why are u still sleeping with a plushie?” because im lonely bitch get out

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angel tears

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Sweet words are like honey, a little may refresh, but too much gluts the stomach.

 Anne Bradstreet (via coral)

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“Cloud Study”, John Constable, 1822

via weheartit

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It’s so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it’s taking forever to come. Then it happens and it’s over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.

Lauren Oliver, Delirium (via

coral)

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This has been a long time coming.

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“I wish I wrote the way I thought; Obsessively, Incessantly, With maddening hunger. I’d write to the point of suffocation. I’d write myself into nervous breakdowns, Manuscripts spiralling out like tentacles into abysmal nothing. And I’d write about you a lot more than I should.”

— Benedict Smith, I Wish I Wrote The Way I Thought

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“I yearn for the violence of passion.”

— Anaïs Nin, from a diary entry featured in Mirages: The Unexpurgated Diary; 1939-1947

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