please, devour me.

I want to walk into the heart of you and never walk back out.
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"I love you and it fills me up so much that I don’t care; I need to take my time and see through this and find myself because I want this with you, I’m still here with you and if I’ve already lost you then none of it matters but you and me still matter and I want to give this a chance because I want you. I want you constantly but I just have to not let this turn into an obsession. I just want to be with you and I want you to trust me and let me in. I’ll let you in, this time. Believe me, I will. I just need to make this right and I will."



     after Corey Van Landingham

For the first boy who broke my heart and the first boy whose heart
I broke. For the boy with soft hands. The boy with calloused hands
who knew how to use them softly. For the one who always came
back. For the one who left. For the one who couldn’t let go and
the one who taught me how. For the boys with eyelashes longer
than mine. For your mothers who let me come over a little more
than I should have and your fathers who were never there. For
your big hands. For babe and for baby. For the one who wore
jeans and men’s cologne because I told you that I liked them.
For your bedroom and our hotel rooms. For the numbers 8 
and 19. For the summers we didn’t spend together and the
weekends we did. For the serendipity of it all. For the one
I said I’d stop writing about and the one I know I’ll never
stop writing of. For my little forevers. I still think of you
when airplanes fly by, but I don’t wish on them anymore.
We had a good run. Thank you.

(Kim Visda)

it’s almost 8 in the morning and i should be getting ready for class but instead i’m sitting under my blankets with no clothes on and wondering what it really means, what it really means to be naked. i think on so many levels that people are too harsh on each other. i think on so many levels everyone misses everyone by just that much. last night i fought with someone over fake and pretentious people and i know this morning that i probably shouldn’t have lost my cool and said all those things i did end up saying, but it was hard not to take that personally. i do not spend every minute trying to convince the whole world that i am real and honest with my life, that i am not masking everything to hide what’s left of me, because there is nothing there under my skin. i am just that, an endless wave of neurons and sensations and nerve endings, dendrite on dendrite turning into everything. i do not like the word fake. i do not like the word pretentious. i know i use them sometimes, i know i say hurtful things about people that are not true because anger is constantly overwhelming my sanity, but i do not think any of those words are for people. there is so much honest around all of us that it is scary how often we miss seeing it, how often we miss that glint in someone’s eyes, the way their hands hold a book, how their mouth turns up when you say something they think is funny. i cannot make promises anymore. i have always been proud of my ability to come good on any promise i make to someone but now i know that i do not have the capacity to be honourable about my words anymore. but this, this is something i can do - promise every last person, every last molecule of oxygen on this planet that i am trying. i swear i am trying. at the end of the day, i am just a kid. i am nineteen years old, i am trying on all the skins that i think might end up fitting me. we are all just kids, we all have no idea who we actually are, we are all getting around in stumbles and fumbles and we are all trying to figure ourselves out and i think we should all just go easy on each other, be easy easy, be easy and soft and tender with each other. 

you are a man with the heart
of a baccara rose drunk on its own

voodoo; i am the hired hand de novo
- trained by witchcraft & whiskey

& for once i don’t love like it is a revenge

Scherezade Siobhan© (via viperslang)

Each time the same - I am holy, holy, holy, laid out as a banquet. His hands are plate, cup, and knife. Always a long table, a single high-backed chair. This is my body. He eats me up and I believe in transubstantiation, that I will awake someday in his veins, pound my fists against the walls of him.

—  Margaret Bashaar, “Claire and the Demon Hunter Give It Up For Jesus” (via 5000letters)

i wish i could say something right now, say something meaningful because i think i need things to start making sense again. these days, i am so moody that i go from wanting everything next to me, around me, in my heart, in my hands to wanting to stay alone, stay insular from the rest of the planet in a matter of seconds. i don’t want to know that you are next to me, but when there is that way you touch me i want nothing more than to feel you all over me, all at once. but i do not think this is about that, about any of the things that i think this is about. in seven weeks from today i will be in london, i will be with megha and her friends and i am a bundle of excitement already because god, god, i so desperately need something to shove me towards feeling once again. three people told me today that i think things over too much but i do not think i possess the courage it takes to walk lightly, to not succumb to my base animal instinct to dissect things. i adjudicated a debate today and i was the only dissent and i did not feel alone in that. i think i could like this, i think i could find more in debating than i do. honestly, right now, i am just looking to find things again. i am listening to bob dylan after the longest time and it feels like coming home, it feels like everything in his words belongs only to me. what a thing that is to feel. how truly blessed i am to resonate like i do to other people, to people i barely know, to people i will never know. life is gruelling. i know that, i know that i can fall down more times than i have the fortitude to pick myself up, but in the end, all of this has to come together. roshni and i talk all the time about why things fall apart and i remember telling her once than their coming together again is the softest, most resolute things about living and i believe that, i believe that completely. i think it is time to let go of inhibitions because to be shielded from things fissioning out into nothingness is to be shielded from living and i do not have the heart to let go of that. not just yet. i am no longer afraid of coming undone. 

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don’t cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids’ flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life’s not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

— E. E. Cummings, Since Feeling Is First  (via goghst)

Kahlil Gibran, “The Madman” [x]


Kahlil Gibran, “The Madman” [x]

When death reached out its hand,
you should have cowered. When you felt the
flames of hell licking at your insides, you were not
supposed to draw closer to the fire.
I watched you disembowel the Earth, saw you pluck
flowers from your mother’s garden and gouge
your fingers into its open wounds,
trying to pry secrets out from the soil.
Everything green started to shrivel
and die when I entered the meadow, but you didn’t
flinch away; instead you kissed me voracious,
like I was something dark you’d tugged
out of reluctant soil.
I wanted your hands, still caked in dirt,
pressing into my naked back.
I thought you’d understand me. Both of us
wanting what we shouldn’t. I know your mother
must have warned you about gods like me.
Tell her I am not a selfish lover. Tell her how
I kneel at your altar and crush the berries
of your hips into wine. That I worship you.
That we spread each other open like flowers
blooming in the night. You wanted to see
what paradise looked like drenched in moonlight,
so I brought you home with me.
When you stood before the gates of hell,
all the beasts lowered their heads
and bowed at your feet.
Everything I have belongs to
you — my wife, my queen.
You are so much flesh and blood,
so much heaving, pulsing, breathing life.
You make the death in me tremble.
I am forever yours.

'Hades' | Anita O. (via deeplystained)