i noticed that you noticed me
eyes not daring to catch eyes
too long

that’s fine
i can play the timid game for quite
some time
if i can play the game with you, i

don’t mind.

I notice that Autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.

Friedrich Nietzsche  (via petitekatie)

(Source: aurorefleurs)


”let yourself unwind, get lost in the garden of my mind”

i look
not for the holding of hands
for the holding of hands’ sake

(Source: weheartit.com)


me: hey i’m kinda good at this writing thing
*reads other people’s writing*
me: i am a literary potato

I am not looking
for the kind of love,
that forces me to prove
my worth

Mandeq Ahmed (via wordsthat-speak)

Sometimes, when people call for her, Moira doesn’t answer. Their words are clear and strong, sometimes very close, but her eyes don’t flicker, her frame doesn’t budge. If they wonder, Does she hear us? Yes, she does.

But she has trained herself, ever since her six month living on Seventh Street, when May came and the skirts in her closet and walks to the bus stop, her neck unadorned by scarves. Then she learned that any stranger might walk his eyes up her legs, around her roundness, and through her. Any fool with a breath in his lungs might use it to call her sweetheart, baby, or honey and ask her for her number. Any man with brakes in his car might pulse them to slow, watch her, roll down his window, and call to her.

She imagined their calls as threads of yarn that’d whip and catch inside the window, fraying and falling away. But that was just how she imagined them. That didn’t make it so.

There were many ways she desired to react, when the man in the white pick up truck pulled up beside her in her car and yelled, Nice ass.

One included reaching her slender, bronze arm outside of her open window and releasing from her loose-knit fist a full long view of her lovely middle finger. Another included responding, Nice harassing, asshole. Fucking jerk. And, Go to hell.

But she didn’t speak like that.

So as it was, she didn’t answer. She rolled her eyes, and her window up, and mentally noted it’d be easier to take interstate. But she liked the sights on Fresco Avenue, named for the murals on the buildings all lined up shoulder to shoulder. And why shouldn’t she be able to admire them? Driving herself in her own car in her own city?

Maybe she’ll just scream one day. Maybe the sound will drift out of her mouth slow, spindling out like spider web catching in the wind. Maybe it will blanket itself across Seventh Street, stretch its fine thin lines of sound out across the whole of Fresco Ave. Then, when the question becomes, Do they hear her? There will be an answer — a proper answer. Her eyes and her frame and her body will own them. Grip them in their lust and refuse to release them. Then, they won’t want her answer. But will they hear her?



understand, that if you’re cold I’ll keep you warm,
and besides, there’s so much beauty in a storm

(Source: outlinedinoceans)

i think a lot of the time, really great, beautiful fiction begins at the truth and then twists away as elegantly as possible.