Spray our dreams on any surface where the paint will stick.
High Hawk Season, The Mountain Goats
i’m jealous of
your pillows
and of your sheets
i want to hear
the sound of
your heartbeat
And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.
Sylvia Plath (via selfinspiration)
(Source: acraeus)
(Source: popcornbutterfly)
Let’s start a revolution. (The Lover’s Dictionary, by David Levithan, p. 203. Picador 2012.)
Maybe language is kind, giving us these double meanings. Maybe it’s trying to teach us a lesson, that we can always be two things at once.
David Levithan (via iflovebeblind)
Why is the word yes so brief?
It should be
the longest,
the hardest,
so that you could not decide in an instant to say it,
so that upon reflection you could stop
in the middle of saying it.
Vera Pavlova, from “If There Is Something to Desire” (via proustitute)
There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me.
From Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer
When I was a girl, my life was music that was always getting louder. Everything moved me. A dog following a stranger. That made me feel so much. A calendar that showed the wrong month. I could have cried over it. I did. Where the smoke from a chimney ended. How an overturned bottle rested at the edge of a table.
I spent my life learning to feel less.
Every day I felt less.
Is that growing old? Or is it something worse?
From Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer
Better safe than sorry, he wrote. At the time I thought he was right, but I am not sure anymore.
From Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer
I put my hand on him. Touching him was always so important to me. It was something I lived for. I could never explain why. Little, nothing touches. My fingers against his shoulder. The outsides of our thighs touching as we squeezed together on the bus. I couldn’t explain it, but I needed it. Sometimes I imagined stitching all of our little touches together. How many hundreds of thousands of fingers brushing against each other does it take to make love?
From Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, Jonathan Safran Foer
my sister cut her hair
my younger sister cut her hair, yesterday.
it used to spill down her back
golden. honey.
she cut it off with silver scissors
in the bathroom over the sink. i never forgot that:
the image of her standing there,
becoming someone she was not
and never would be. the look on her face
when it fell away from her and she realized what
she had done.
you, i said.
you look like a ghost. with your pale face
and your blue eyes and your shivering arms.
she was so skinny.
all those bones, sharp beneath her sweaters
ribs, kneecaps, veins.
i helped her clean it up; poured all the hair
into some mason jars
and hid them beneath my bed.
even now, years later,
she comes to me at night. crying.
i ask her what’s wrong and she tells me:
i am forgetting what i look like.
Believe only half of what you see and nothing that you hear.
Edgar Allen Poe (via lustandmistrust)
(Source: thoughtsconsuming)
Highlights and Interstices, Jack Gilbert (via helplesslyamazed)
