Stealing Beauty

(Source: vintagegal, via saraashouri)

Sean Patrick Mulroy, “poem to a lover on his birthday,” published on The Bakery (via nps2013)

(via grammatolatry)

“Love is not a feeling. It is a spiritual energy. Love is pure creative energy at its highest level. Love expressed in human form actualizes your divine self.”

- Barbara King

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing (poem), by Margaret Atwood (via align)

(Source: the-final-sentence, via align)

(Source: almostnice)

(via saraashouri)

Tribes by Seth Godin (via unshakeablefaith)

(Source: tea-and-thorazine, via saraashouri)

Sierra DeMulder, Ariel (via wysiati)

(Source: allthereisiswhatyousee)

always on point bb

(via abridges97-deactivated20130522)

how far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?
how often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short? 
why do you find the unavailable so alluring? where did it begin? what went wrong? and who made you feel so worthless?
if they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you? 
all this time, you were begging for love silently, thinking they couldn’t hear you, but they smelt it on you, 
you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin? 
and what about the others that would do anything for you, why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?
how are you both of these women, both flighty and needful? 
where did you learn this, to want what does not want you? 
where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay? 

warsan shire, “questions for the woman i was last night”

you are a horse running alone
and he tries to tame you
compares you to an impossible highway
to a burning house
says you are blinding him
that he could never leave you
forget you
want anything but you
you dizzy him, you are unbearable
every woman before or after you
is doused in your name
you fill his mouth
his teeth ache with memory of taste
his body just a long shadow seeking yours
but you are always too intense
frightening in the way you want him
unashamed and sacrificial 
he tells you that no man can live up to the one who 
lives in your head
and you tried to change didn’t you?
closed your mouth more
tried to be softer
prettier
less volatile, less awake
but even when sleeping you could feel 
him travelling away from you in his dreams
so what did you want to do love
split his head open?
you can’t make homes out of human beings
someone should have already told you that
and if he wants to leave
then let him leave
you are terrifying
and strange and beautiful
something not everyone knows how to love.
— Warsan Shire, For Women Who Are ‘Difficult’ to Love

You Must Accept by Kate Light

You must accept that’s who he really is.
You must accept you cannot be his
unless he is yours. No compromise.
He is a canvas on which paint never dries;
a clay that never sets, steel that bends
in a breeze, a melody that when it ends
no one can whistle. He is not who
you thought. He’s not. He is a shoe
that walks away: “I will not go where you
want to go.” “Why, then, are you a shoe?”
“I’m not. I have the sole of a lover
but don’t know what love is.” “Discover
it, then.” “Will I have to go where you go?”
“Sometimes.” “Be patient with you?” “Yes.” “Then, no.”
You have to hear what he is telling you
and see what he is; how it is killing you.

Kurt Vonnegut, Unready to Wear (via moonbrains)

(Source: emiliakokaine, via litttlebeats)

opalinefeather:

He will always tell you he didn’t know                                                                            what he was doing. He knew. Just like

you know why you cannot pass the liquor store                                                            without stopping in, and why the holidays are                                                           another excuse to sit alone in the backyard                                                                  and look at birds.

Once he presented you freedom                                                                                    like a poisoned gift.

Everything tonight seems like a sweet, slow suicide.                                                     The bath could be an ocean.                                                                                             You, a sinking ship. Or.                

The bed a height you can’t get down from, and you.                                                       A lithe red fruit heavy with longing for the ground.