— Margaret Atwood

𝕴 𝖆𝖒 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖑𝖞 𝖋𝖆𝖓𝖙𝖆𝖘𝖎𝖟𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖇𝖔𝖚𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖒𝖊𝖑𝖑 𝖔𝖋 𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖚𝖒𝖓. ☕️🍁📚

Holy books are an insult to a God with good intentions.

Dejan Stojanovic, The Sun Watches the Sun

to be seen, to be heard, is to be loved

The way in which he came and went was eerie, yet ineffably comforting. Like flickering prophecies or an aurora plagued by solitude, it was a captivation with an indescribable feeling only managed to be harbored by those whose chosen fate was to lose. Those with cursed fingerprints and skeletons that danced amongst near-empty closets and an ephemeral name that would never be theirs. Macabre was the weight of his lips upon bare skin, a premonition of an aching heart and empty bed in every stolen touch. A personified ardor that'd yet to be stoked by late January's biting attitude dripped from his embrace.

Maybe he was simply just a side-effect. A dissociation that leaked through the fabrics of reality and stained her present with a warming rouge. He was Norman Rockwell simplicity mixed with the oddities of the late sixties. Mismatched yet almost perfect, a thrift-store buy with a warehouse charm. Or had it been the other way around? Either way, she had an addiction to that ceaseless feeling of the blues he ignited within her.

And he could see her. And just for that, she loved him.

He saw every inch plagued by a fragile decay and baseless faith. Heard every syllable from that tired tongue. Understood all the angsts and desires and outdated apathy. Wrapped amongst her tear-stained, baby-pink sheets, he'd crack a smile that took her back to a youthful careless careful. A glimpse of meaning in a savior-less world unable to be purified by even the most innocent hands of a promised keeper.

"What's the point of getting everything you have every wanted anyway?"

He'd always whisper this as she would turn the news on and off and on and off and on to reveal the next city a higher power had engulfed into flames.

-lauren a.p

12.8.22

And so he sickened her again,

not with poison. not with words. but with the rudeness that he grew to love, he forgot that he was yours.

Where the hell is the Neil to my Todd?? Where is the person I'll write poetry for? Let me leave sappy notes and send links to poems while I say 'hey this made me think of you'.

Where is this person??

Don’t let anyone who hasn't been in your shoes tell you how to tie your laces.

k.b. // unknown

Ada Limón, from “Sometimes I Think My Body Leaves a Shape in the Air”, The Carrying: Poems

to live. to live forever.

he gets it (sports fandom as collaborative delusion)

update: the saga continues

C.S. Lewis once wrote,

"I sat with my anger long enough until she told me her real name was grief"

And I think we all needed to hear that.

Siren-Moon

The ocean reflects the pearl moon As the siren purrs her angelic tune.

She beckons you under the water— Take the hand of Poseidon’s daughter And melt into the glass sea; Allow the ocean to set you free— Free from death; free from pain; Free from life’s constant strain.

Let the water cradle your tired bones— Join her in the deepest unknowns.

-Poem by me! @xoluciferxo

"a prophesy"

Those worn eyes sought it.

Craved it with biting teeth and a carnivorous appetite

Lusted for the illuminating show in back-alley lights

Like a sinful dweller hooked upon the next hit, inhale, high

Addicted to the climactic downfall

Prophesied to repeat itself

-lauren a.p