Take Me Home, Country Roads By John Denver Except It’s Playing From Your Neighbor’s Radio That You

yeah a boyfriend sounds nice but a supreme enemy you can make out with sometimes in secret sounds a lot more hardcore

holy, holy, holy. these are the words he murmurs into your skin, language of prayer, language of divinity, language of worship. holy, holy, holy. he whispers it into your crook of your neck, rolls the words into the hollow of your throat, into your bones, into your sharp edges. holy, holy, holy. a mantra. a litany. a prayer. holy, holy, holy. the way he looks at you, it’s like he wants to take you apart and study each piece of you, and then maybe he’ll put you back together when he’s done. maybe. holy, holy, holy. he stares at you, so hard you can feel it burning your skin, and you think maybe he’ll kiss you, or maybe he’ll eat you alive. you haven’t decided yet. holy, holy, holy. in the end, it’s a kiss, real as a punch and twice as hard, and it hurts like a bullet pearling into flesh, hurts like his eyes on the back of your neck, on your collarbones, on your lips. holy. holy, holy, holy.

on loving a god | m.c.p (via ara-ne-um)

5 things about the apocalypse

one.  after the sun is eaten, our shadows outgrow our bodies and the stars i took for gods go out. while i did not sleep i heard laughter—cacophonous, full of teeth. at the end i am eating tinned peaches and casting dice on the ground, in expectation of wings, of light, of anything but this stupefied cold, this silence which is an obscenity.

two.  the hungry are weeping as they walk. i have seen a man open another’s ribs like a pair of doors, unseal him where the chest is soft, harrow him for red. they eat only the heart, the first-formed part, cradled and chewed between two horrified hands. fed, they are hungrier. in this corrupt light, the gullet-red of appetite, their faces shine wet and without mercy.

three.  we send up prayers like the last of flares, phosphorus breaking upon midnight. the horizon is a hot wound parting: the dead climb out of their deep tenements, and we greet them, shaken. what does it matter that they are as pale as guilt, that their eyes do not seek us, that they shrink from us in dismay?

four.  yesterday, the words went from us. they left our books and maps and gravestones, emptied our histories and speeches and songs. they fled our throats, and made barren our mouths. in your bible genesis is a cenotaph; nothing is begotten. i hold your hands and i have no voice to speak your living name, to tell you that i am full of fear and relief.

five. it is written on a wall in jerusalem: τετέλεσται. the stars have already fallen, and she proclaims that she is the mouth of god. you go among the crowd to hear her speak, in the brick-husk of the chapel of the holy face. the look of her roars down your blood. men come for her at night, cut out her tongue and string her up by the neck in the muristan. you are kneeling in your kitchen as the earth shakes, and over that great distance you still hear her voice on the wind, causing the dust to rise. it is finished.

(six.  we held each other all night, deep in the rot, our arms helplessly tender. late was the coming of light, a whiteness so bright it seemed infernal, lifting us into a hollow morning, and what breath we were was shaken from us—

and we were dead a little while longer then, cool and adrift on the surface of the abandoned world.)

Jay Wright By Dennis Tejero For Harper’s Bazaar Kazakhstan September 2018

adam parrish: i am so busy all of the time i have a partial scholarship and three jobs

adam parrish: also im emotionally exhausted all the time, from living in an abusive home and my self-image facing off against my survival instincts

adam parrish: but sure, i'd love to spend time looking for a dead welsh king

adam parrish: and i totally have the time to pursue a relationship

adam parrish:

adam parrish:

adam parrish:

adam parrish: tbh being a sentient forest's magician isn't that big of a commitment

4. treat him as they’ve treated you | b.s.h

things blue sargent has in her college dorm room freshman year:

a new paper tree forest on her wardrobe door. this one is made out of construction paper, magazines, and old newspapers, and it’s a specific kind of forest. there’s blue lilies falling from the top, past the sprawling trees and into the pond full of red-bellied fish below.

maura’s tarot deck. blue had tried to refuse the present, as she has no use for a tarot deck, but maura had said daughter in a tone that implied blue was breaking some kind of sacred emotional ritual, and blue had said mother in a way that said a hug and some burnt brownies probably would’ve done the trick but fine, thanks, okay, and then blue had tucked the deck into her bag and they’d both giggled at each other for getting misty-eyed.

on her desk, she’s got a collection of stones–some of them are calla’s, given back to blue. (it’s not like blue’s thoughts are still coming off of them, calla says. blue squeezes one tightly, thinking i love you; you’re my mom too; i love you i love you i love you, and leaves it in calla’s favorite purse.) 

in her desk drawer, blue has persphone’s dissertation. she stole it from her room before she left fox way. she hasn’t read it yet, but sometimes it makes her feel better, knowing that some new words of persphone’s she hasn’t heard yet are just a few feet away. she also has persphone’s favorite knitting needles, which blue is using to make a rather frumpy sweater in her down time.

nail polish from orla, in violent orange and neon blue and forest green. (orla also gave her a crash course on mixed drinks, the numbers of eight different siblings of orla’s friends who are attending her college, and the dress that blue has been trying to steal out of orla’s closet since orla outgrew it four years ago.)

a box full of letters from her boys. it’s adam that she writes on a weekly basis–he needs it most, she thinks, because ronan’s got matthew and noah, gansey’s got his family, and blue has hers. he writes back every time, usually matching her letters for length. 

a cardboard miniature of 300 fox way. blue didn’t see gansey set it down on her nightstand the day he helped her move in, but she notices it as soon as they’ve said their goodbyes and blue headed back to her room. the detail in it is what she would expect of gansey, and it warms her heart to see it–her home, her past, her family, recreated with love from the person she knows will be part of her future.

a ball of yarn that never seems to end, and manages to change colors and thickness to fit whatever blue wants to knit or crochet at the time. she hadn’t thought much of it when ronan tossed it at her as she packed her bags, but it’s proven to be endlessly delightful (and baffling, if you’re her roommate).

dozens and dozens and dozens of pictures, all taped to the wall above her bed. her and orla when they were little girls, tucked into a pillow fort and giving maura identical petulant get out looks. maura and a five-year-old blue both bundled up in thick jackets and chunky hats, cheeks red from the cold, beaming at the camera. maura, calla, and persphone flushed and laughing as they played their drunken guessing games. blue and cialina flipping off the camera in their nino’s aprons. gansey, looking into the distance like some hero posing for a sculpture. gansey, asleep on a textbook with his glasses half off of his face and his jaw slack. ronan petting chainsaw’s beak. ronan giving blue a piggyback ride when she sprained her ankle. noah’s face when he’d looked in his room and seen that they’d decked it out in 2005-era sk8r punk gear. adam scrunching up his nose at the presence of the camera. adam, ronan, gansey, and blue the day of aglionby’s graduation, all of them grinning at the camera, all of their arms looped around each other.

Paul Eluard, “Absence”, Selected Poems (trans. Gilbert Bowen)

[Text ID: “My voice discovering you”]

forgive me father for I have sinned in all the coolest and most glamorous ways possible