surrounded by signs—their shadows on his skin a lullaby /
to flesh in a fleshless gallery.
Sinéad Morrissey, from “Jo Gravis in His Metal Garden”, Parallax and selected poems
(via zhugeliangs)
(via zhugeliangs)
I don’t care if it’s a sad good-bye or a bad good-bye, but when I leave a place I like to know I’m leaving it.
What happens when a woman’s body becomes a weapon?
She opens her mouth to find a siren song instead of a voice.
There’s a fine line between willing and able but this didn’t
stop them from treating her body like the last supper. She
kept screaming but in Eden even the snakes are praying
for a woman’s death. Look at how far Eve’s blood curdling
screams got her. Just another piece of rotted fruit littered
on the ground. Woman’s body turns into fire and is born
again. Now woman speaks in song and doesn’t feel regret
when they ask for her song as their last wish. It becomes
their death march. A shallow grave, and she holds the
shovel. Woman has been the hero and the anti-hero,
both wield a power they want gone. She extracts it from
the ground, the dirt, the flower petals. All by their grace
she sings and sings and sings until her body is forgotten
and her voice could be recognized in the dark.
A STUDY ON THE WOMAN’S BODY, angelea l. (via wildfairy)
This generation of photographers aren’t waiting around for their dreams to be handed them; they’re trend-setters and go-getters making it happen, they ARE the here and now! The future belongs to them, but this moment’s all yours. LOOK
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things I would tell my younger self: don’t skip breakfast, and by the time you’re 19 you can draw hands
IG @ pachuburichu
(via ex-plore)
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