Nightishly

These are the kinds of moments you only get with Oglaf.

Go find this book and seduce yourself in its pages. Seriously.

C’mon Tumblr, do better. Sponsor something worthwhile in the future.

every so often I die a little to know again

I don't want to become this place. I don't want my roots to grasp this soil, under this sun. I don't want to care about anything here. I have no reservoir beneath this ground. I am not of here. But I am at a moment demanding my becoming. The weeds are twining up my legs. I don't want to become this place. I have no love here. I have no love in this ground.

All inside a velvet shell, tucked like petals under snow, bound with nothing more than breath, curls a dream of rib and bone, leg and lip, breast and eye. And beside it, hard and warm, something too harsh for the world, a mistake trying to stay still, an embryonic heart of wax, wicked and wishing for permission.

How I sleep now, you wouldn’t know, it’s not a song. Dreaming of furs again, I would kill for that, a field dressed phantasm. I still see the stone cottage, her revealed body, my answering skin. On television there’s an actress. On my phone, no text reply. Did I fall out of your clay-hand, was it a kill-hand all along? No, I know. Sometimes we run to keep from maiming. Oh, I can’t say your name. Your long blonde name. Your vampire smile. A tent in the woods covered in cold wet leaves, I have fire in a cup, it gutters, gutters, glows. In the morning I’ll restring my bow.