The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.

6th May 2012

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I thought I understood it, that I could grasp it, but I didn’t, not really. Only the smudgeness of it; the pink-slippered, all-containered, semi-precious eagerness of it. I didn’t realize it would sometimes be more than whole, that the wholeness was a rather luxurious idea. Because it’s the halves that halve you in half. I didn’t know, don’t know, about the in-between bits; the gory bits of you, and the gory bits of me.

—Like Crazy (via tristezza)

When Cleopatra received Antony on her cedarwood ship,
she made sure he would smell her in advance across the sea:
perfumed sails, nets sagging with rosehips and crocus
draped over her bed, her feet and hands rubbed in almond oil,
cinnamon, and henna. I knew I had you when you told me

you could not live without my scent, bought pink bottles of it,
creamy lotions, a tiny vial of parfume—one drop lasted all day.
They say Napoleon told Josephine not to bathe for two weeks
so he could savor her raw scent, but hardly any mention is ever
made of their love of violets. Her signature fragrance: a special blend

of these crushed purple blooms for wrist, cleavage, earlobe.
Some expected to discover a valuable painting inside
the locket around Napoleon’s neck when he died, but found
a powder of violet petals from his wife’s grave instead. And just
yesterday, a new boy leaned in close to whisper that he loved

the smell of my perfume, the one you handpicked years ago.
I could tell he wanted to kiss me, his breath heavy and slow
against my neck. My face lit blue from the movie screen—
I said nothing, only sat up and stared straight ahead. But
by evening’s end, I let him have it: twenty-seven kisses

on my neck, twenty-seven small murders of you. And the count
is correct, I know—each sweet press one less number to weigh
heavy in the next boy’s cupped hands. Your mark on me washed
away with each kiss. The last one so cold, so filled with mist
and tiny daggers, I already smelled blood on my hands.

- Aimee Nezhukumatathil

29th Oct 2011 | 88 notes

(Source: circlejerkitandworkit)

23rd Aug 2011 | 1 note

Boo hoo? Well, go write in your flipping diary then!

I’m so tired of seeing statuses, tweets, retweets, and posts of people feeling sorry for themselves. Yeah, once in a while life really sucks and it’s ok to vent that out online.
But, honestly? Retweeting every single thing that relates to your life one after the other? Talking about how your life sucks? Talking about how you’re so totally over your ex, but then posting lyrics that pretty much say you want them back? Unnecessary.
How many people are actually gonna try and contact you to find out what’s really wrong? Hmmm?
If you really have the need to voice your problems out to the world (Is it really a problem? Like, legit? As in your mother just died?), then go talk to someone who actually will be there to listen and who cares. Not to a bunch of people online who couldn’t really give a shite.
Like I said, once in a while, it’s ok to go online and type out your having a bad day. But clogging up my feed so that literally half of what I read is about you feeling sorry for yourself? Nooo, thank you. I know I could/should just block or unfollow you if I’m this annoyed, but I actually care about what you have to say when you’re not busy moping around like the world’s about to end.
Everybody has a right to get mad or sad about circumstances in their lives. No duh. It’s gonna happen. But you can’t constantly dwell on your problems, suck other people into it, and then expect them to care. Be mad or sad, go throw or punch something, but then let it go and move the heck on. Life is seriously too short to not enjoy it, especially with the people who are actually worth it.
There’s no use in throwing yourself a never ending pity party because either no one will show up or they’ll get bored and leave.
And if you’re acting all indignant at what you just read, then you’re probably guilty.