Out Of The Ash I Rise With My Red Hair And I Eat Men Like Air

I’m trying to dig myself out of this hole I’ve found myself in But the dirt just keeps falling through my fingertips

@existential-words (via existential-words)

@2wentysixletters come to Paris too!

friends— 

i am heading to greece/greek islands, croatia, slovenia, hungary, austria, czech republic and hopefully germany & the netherlands soon, if you have any recommendations on cool places (ie. museums, cafes, bookstores, etc) to visit, i wanna know! please send them through. 

love and light. 

by HelenaLlum

black lips

five weeks before you broke my heart, i had this dream where my father stood in front of me. two generations lost in close-knit shadows, facing the other in the midst of a nightmare & staring deep into the vortex of each other’s eyes.  

in a rusty voice, he recited to my face every lie he’s ever told.

his childhood, the seize, the running, my mom, his misery.

in the rhythm of his words, in the flow of his lies, his lips began turning black.

Lie      after               lie, his lips, a shade d   e      e         p            e               r in the obscurity.

turning my back on this show proved useless, as my neck was stiff & my legs, knee-deep in thick soil.  

stare & listen, while tears water the ground

i tried screaming, as to suffocate the torture of his words with my own shriek. but my mouth was sealed closed & my hands, disloyal to my commands.

i woke up a fountain of cold sweat, sobbing.

….

two nights before we murdered our love in cold blood,   we met for drinks at a bar à vins. the gleam in our eyes yelled to the entire world how traces of ancient grapes ran in our blood. god were we playful while life was onto us.

sneaky little romance

we talked about it all that night: gravity & flying,      friction & fire, language & riddles. for the 500th time, you corrected my pronunciation of the letter u. & in the stretching of your mouth, i fell victim to the evident art in your beauty; jawlines dancing in perfect rhythm; an enigmatic symmetry traced in your face.  

on our way home, we walked the streets as if sidewalks were made for peasants & we had just been crowned kings. laughing,    stumbling, holding onto each other.

in a deserted street, you wrapped me in your arms while murmuring in a secretive voice:  

i love you

we both smiled.

& under beams of moonlight, while my eyes hunted for your eyes, i noticed red wine had stained your lips black.

- @skinthepoet

ART HISTORY MEME | [1/7] sculptures; david

I sit in the train barefoot,  and there’s a long way home.  I kiss you so often  in my thoughts. I never taught  I had to teach romance  but here I am; preaching one religion praying to one God. The God  that teaches men  to love their women.  My barefoot with  tired patches on,  my hands break with  longing. And no matter  how much you stay, my legs never get tired of you.  My feet on the passanger seat, writing drafts of poetry for a magnetic man.  My poems are the proof  that I can never think enough of you.

Cinderella by Royla Asghar (via poems-of-madness)

So when you ask me why I cannot love you more calmly, I answer that to love you calmly is not to love you at all.

Jeanette Winterson, from The PowerBook (via lifeinpoetry)

st-roch

Musée des Beaux Arts Marseille, France 10:27 a.m / 27 ° (prolly)

Jacques-Louis David (French painter) - 1748, Paris, FR St-Roch intércedant la Vierge pour la guérison des pestifecés Saint Roch Interceding with the Virgin for the Plague-Stricken

from old english 'martyr', late latin 'martyr' & doric greek 'martyr'; a witness, a proof, bystander, behoof. take all the blame in the world & thrust it upon a humble man until the weight of grief drowns him down to a single knee. to grab another man's mysery & wear it until fingers run black & every pore in the canvas of a body is painted in cold sweat. do we fold our hands in prayer to let our right tell our left there might be some wisdom in regret?

men and deity can't waltz in the dark; as men trip in shadows & deities only sway in the light. martyr & deity cross sights that hide words; martyr says grace; deity says wait (she's so hard to please but she's a forest fire).

belief turns to faith only when your feet run past the cliff's edge. it then whispers: roch, grab your fellow man's pain and make it your own; catapult it to the skies until the beads in your rosary become buboes under your skin. roch awaits a celestial intervention on the misery of humankind & holds dear the flames of disease. preaching hope & aching. miracles à la carte don't exist, roch later realized this when deities handed him his own cure while every standing being surrounding him, crumbled. but u a saint now, roch. u iconic.

- @skinthepoet

I’d rather be in the mountains thinking of God than in church thinking about the mountains.

John Muir (via wordsthat-speak)