terrible anatomy
"It is only goodness which gives extras, and so I say again that we have much to hope from the flowers."

W. H. Auden, The More Loving One, 1957. (x)

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(Source: r-ideout)

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:(  # q  # lovely  
‘‘ I am the kind of woman who is already teaching my body to miss yours
—— Yrsa Daley-Ward, from “sthandwa sami (my beloved, isiZulu),” bone  (via lifeinpoetry)
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words  # yrsa daley-ward  # q  


Frances Ha (2012) dir. Noah Baumbach

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frances ha  # film  # q  

(Source: kniivila)

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comic  # q  

(Source: nox-ater)

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florals  # q  


 Aleyn Comprendio

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sea things  # about me  # aleyn comprendio  # q  

me like ‘haha yeah i can DEFINITELY write a five page paper in two hours!! time is a construct, deadlines have no meaning and also i’m dead inside’

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Two people at the edge of the road, two lovers at the edge of the road, two desires
at the edge:
If you tell me to come home with you I won’t say no,
If you tell me to come home with you I am an empty house with
empty rooms and
open doors.
You’re smoking a cigarette and I’m watching your hands and the whole night is
holding its breath.

I didn’t want anything more than this:
a cheap thrill, a beautiful boy, beer stains in the backseat of an Acura –
just give me something to write about and we’re even,
just give me a reason not to call this whole thing off,
I’m giving you the mile. All you have to do is take it.
Somewhere along the way I stopped asking questions
but your spine makes the shape of my mouth in the mirror,
the road to nowhere,
the curving eyelash and the inevitable wish:
you are what an answer looks like when it gets so close it blocks out all
the glowing exit signs and all the stars.

Imagine the beautiful and reckless boy in your kitchen, imagine him with his socks on and nothing else and there is
pomegranate juice on the table and on his chin and on the muted television the people are dancing.
There’s a thing in your stomach, a live thing, a growing thing. If you open your mouth it’s a thing that will bloom.
Imagine the boy watching the people dance. Imagine yourself,
watching the boy.

There’s blood in your mouth and you don’t know how it got there.
You didn’t know that love is just the threat of violence.
It’s the way he runs his fingers through your hair that is going to ruin you.
All you want is to be taken apart, he says.
If you cut a newspaper into pieces it makes a pretty good love story.
You think: if you cut us all up we’re a terrible accident,
or the scene of a crime.

Two hands on the clock striking twelve, two hands driving into my body like gentleness on the highway, two hands, both tied:
this could be the very last parking lot at the edge of the world.
We already know how it’s going to end but this is the moment
we learn what we’re made of -
exhales, exhaust, and all the lights burnt out.
Crash, smoke.
Somewhere, someone is getting into a car and driving away.
Somewhere, someone is entering a room
and closing a door.

—— Elaine Leah, “The Parking Lot
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