Did I help when I was kissing you?

the greatest lie ever told about love is that it sets you free THE GREATEST LIE EVER TOLD ABOUT LOVE IS THAT IT SETS YOU FREE if this isn’t the truest statement i don’t know what is and it kills me inside every time

(Source: susleena, via graveyardgal)


i work at a job where i get told “thank you” on a regular basis (basically everytime i interact with someone) and i get told have a good night pretty often and i have a theory that it makes my life better having so many people wishing me well and saying polite things towards me, no matter how superficially

"I struggled my way onto a packed bus. I became all that surged past the busy roadside markets humming with men pulling rickshaws heavy with bodies. A light breeze from the river was cool on our faces through the open windows. Eager passengers ran alongside us. The bus slowed down. A young man grabbed those arms, pulled them through. The moon filled the dust-polluted sky: a ripe, unsheathed lychee. It wasn’t enough light to see clearly by, but I still turned my face toward it."

— Tarfia Faizullah, “[I struggled…]”

Danté Belt

Danté Belt

"How do the saints feel when they fall to their knees,
God coming to light?
Less ecstatic than ashamed, I fear,
Of bodies never worthy of being seized.
Encumbered by the weight of a tear,
In hopeless hindsight
They see all that the flesh can never appease,

All that the flesh is obliged to mortify.
Here I am, laid out,
Looking up to where nothing appears,
Hardly wondering why nothing satisfies
And yet saddened that it’s all so clear.
Tulip waterspouts
Trickle. Reservoirs deep underground reply."

— J.D. McClatchy

Kelsey Shell
Still from 
Abigail (Past Self), 2011.

"The billionth digit of pi is 9,
The last month without a full moon,
February, 1865—
This morning I am making a list
Of the last lines of parables
About the work of numbers, about
Calculations, marking the speed
With which blood travels, as if three feet
Per second were like the blessings
On the late workers in a vineyard
Or a son just home from living with swine.

Someone continues the division
That computes the decimals of pi—
He is telling a story, numerals
Spilling out toward infinity,
The counting a language, a life
Beyond this one, as difficult
To believe as the number of hours
We’ve slept together, darkness returning
And vanishing, the moments, nightly,
Between your breaths, the hesitations
In your deep sleep; my own held breath,
Listening, and then, temporarily
Relieved, turning toward the window,
Reciting the autonomic lesson
Of your lungs that swell and shrink
At last, in rhythm, their vital
Capacity, in liters, 3.1."

— Gary Fincke, “Calculations: A Love Poem”

Lucy Ferguson

Lucy Ferguson


90% of how i judge a boy is based on how he feels about going down on girls. it’s not even sexual . it’s a character thing. says a lot about a guy