“Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.”—Franz Kafka (via quotestuff)
“I keep writing about sex. I think, I mean—
all I want is the after of it, after you took my
skirt off with your teeth, after I was so clumsy
with the buttons on your shirt that I ripped
them open because I was so fucking frustrated
and they bounced around my feet like pearls,
rolled under the bed. You thought it was sexy
and fucked me against the wall with my bra
still on. I felt like a queen. Saw, in the unforgiving
morning light, where your mouth had been. And
your nails. Your sweat. Now all I want is tenderness.
I hold eggs in my hand at the grocery store,
check them for cracks and leaks. I try to do the
same to myself. When I go to restaurants I stay
for hours, ordering nothing except wine and tracing
my finger around the glass rim until it sings. When
you said, Your skin is holding you in nicely, I cried.
So now you know. Don’t leave.”—Kristina Haynes, “When I Opened My Hips” (via fleurishes)
“you walked out of a burning house.
ran to small footsteps like stones chained to the back of your ankles. they tried to heel you
make you into a vista
a pretty picture for others to admire.
you looked down at your hands and what covered them and cried
a gush of vermillion left your soul.
how could he love an absent heart and a smile that’s gone astray.
you can’t fall in love with invisible people
didn’t ma tell you so?
your skin reflects aurora rays
you’re blinding them even though you yourself lack perception.
but can’t you see?
they stole a fragment of your soul like thieves in the night of endless storms
and tried to change you
but they just left scars behind.
you fought a battle to leave a burning house
and you left them there.
don’t look back.
you are so strong
with sun left on your face as a reminder that
your art’s too complex for regular eyes.”—daughter of the sun - rahila (via rahilas)
“I want to love you wildly.
I don’t want words, but inarticulate
cries, meaningless, from the bottom
of my most primitive being, that flow
from my belly like honey.
A piercing joy, that leaves me empty,
conquered, silenced.”—Anaïs Nin (via thatkindofwoman)