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@rottentrigger
the man, the myth, the legend.

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āMy mother boils seawater. It sits all afternoon simmering on the stovetop, almost two gallons in a big soup pot. The windows steam up and the house smells like a storm. In the evening, a crust of salt is all thatās left at the bottom of the pot. My mother scrapes it out with a spoon. We each lick a fingertip and dip them in the salt and itās softer than youād think, less like sand and more like snow. We lay our fingertips on our tongues, right in the middle. It tastes like salt but like something else, tooāwide, and dark. It tastes like drowning, or like falling asleep on the shore and only waking up when the tide has come up to your feet and you wonder if youād gone on sleeping, would you have sunk?ā
The Alchemy: Salt from Water
Christian Dior Haute Couture S/S 2006
Teach me how to gracefully let go of things not meant for me.
āŖthis heartbreak feels more like an infected wound. it aches more than it bleeds.⬠I want you to go away.

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christmas orphan
the families welcome me as if I am not someone they have just met but a long lost friend that has finally decided to come home and it hurts, to carve my place in their traditions as an outsider witnessing their vulnerable love.
more people hug me than Iāve been held in years, I am fed until I can no longer move, there are wrapped presents with my name in elegant scrawl - I have not believed in Santa for years, but he visits me anyway.
a lanky man tries to bring life to a bonfire that adamantly refuses to catch - the smoke fills my lungs, sinking into my coat like an embrace. I smell it for days after, catching a hint on my skin as I remove my layers.
(I think about his quiet demeanor, the low timbre of his voice, his nimble hands working out chords to Christmas songs - and I quell the whispers of lust, but the dry want has settled in my mouth.)
a mother that is not my own wraps her arms around me, pointing up at more stars than Iāve ever seen in my life.
āyou canāt see this in the city,ā she says, as her husband points out the constellations, Orionās belt has never felt closer - I resist the urge to reach out for them because for once I believe I can catch them before they fall.
winter chill has made its way to the steps of this town, wind biting at my face and saturating through my jacket - we scramble down a slope into the woods, towards the gentle noise of trickling water that grows in volume as we reach the banks. the water sweeps over granite, but the peace has settled into my bones.
when we leave I am left aching, as if a cavity has been formed in my heart in the sparse time we stayed, I am left with a yearning for people, places, things, that I never knew I was missing until I stepped out into the biting air.
She talks with wolves, without knowing what sort of beasts they are: Where have you been all my life? they ask. Where have I been all my life? she replies.
Margaret Atwood, from Good Bones and Simple Murders; āLet Us Now Praise Stupid Women,ā (via violentwavesofemotion)
none of this is going in my dissertation but
with each shuddering breath, I carry you across the plains, through the valleys, wade into the waist deep rivers.
there is an entire world that waits for you,
I am merely the deliverance.

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I rise like the sun above olive trees, like the moon above date palms. Where there is light, I shall be. Where there is darkness, there is none of me. I rise like the moon above date palms. I am counted as one among stars.
Book of the Dead, Ancient Egyptian Funerary Text, circa 1600 BCE (via panatmansam)
Alex Stoddard Photography
Alex Stoddard is a 22-year-old photographer based in Los Angeles, California.
I discovered photography at the beginning of 2010 and soon after began the 365 project, in which I would take a photograph every day for one year. My portfolio is comprised mostly of self-portraits, but I often collaborate with models on conceptual and fashion photographs. I donāt know where I want to go with photography, so Iām just going to see where it takes me.Ā
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posted by tu recepcja
brace for impact, the comedown from the high maybe next time will be better, you say, subverting all power to the main systems. your landing gear knees buckle beneath you, god, you should've bought more wine - There was a time when you would jump headfirst into danger, the first to light the spark that set off the fire in your lungs - but you learned, through years of mistakes, years of digging pieces of yourself from the ashes that when the gunpowder settles, what have you really kept? except the dirt coating your lungs and the cuts in your palms? he had more value to you when he hurt you, yet you're looking for more. you were a person before he fucked you and wanted to be a friend before a lover - but you have a habit of mixing everything up, vertigo from the open cockpit, the smoke in the descent tugging tears from the corners of your eyes. the gunpowder settles, settled, will settle - how could you have known the blast radius would swallow your world?
g
where did my pride go? where is it? can i find it tucked between the frets of my guitar, in the half steps of my piano keys? in scribbled lines on post its at work to be distilled into something beautiful? where did my pride go? could i ever find it back in your arms, can i forget the sad, pitiful look you gave me, because telling me the truth hurt just as much as a lie my mind wraps around the concept of you ever thinking of me as a person and spits at your feet - and now more questions arise, not just where, but when? was it when you convinced me to let you come over? did you shudder when you accidentally fell asleep in my bed, feel revulsion when you woke up - too early for the sun, too late for the stars - to find me curled at your side? (because i kissed you like molasses as you said goodbye at the door, laid awake in bed long after you'd gone, listening to the storm abating outside, your cologne a ghost of a whisper in my nest of blankets) was that when pride got lost amongst the mountains of my sheets, slip into the space behind my bed and hide? or was it when i came to you, close to tears and you held me - god forbid i believed your assurances, prying my fingers across my dignity, my sense of accomplishment to let you in, let you in, let you in - the end was disguised as exaltation, gunpowder triggered supernova, and when the dust settled i watched who had shot first, too blind to believe the aim, the gun, the blood - pride would have protected me from this. but i left pride behind long ago.
baby, you left your heart at my place. you crept out of bed when you thought i was still asleep, my throat dotted with bruises like a modern art painting you call āHow to Fuck Someone with No Strings Attached,ā and you dropped your heart on my living room floor on your way out. i know me and you, weāre not about anything more complicated than hey than howāre you than come here take off your clothes thatās it right there yes yes yes than silence, and creeping from my apartment too early in the morning while i pretend iām asleep with your masterpiece on my skin but, hey, i just wanted to let you know, youāre walking around with a hole in your chest and itās sucking up everything around it like something terrifying and raw in deep space, and baby, your chest is missing something and itās in my living room. i know me and you, loveās not in our vocabulary, that when you curl into me while you dream itās for warmth and not affection, but baby, i picked your heart up off my living room floor and wrapped it in a warm towel like a fragile thing. baby, i just wanted to let you know iām taking care of it.
e.k.t., āfor when you want it back.ā (via anarchetypal)

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what will he think of me in two weeks from now?Ā
two months?Ā two years?
where has he tucked my kisses, my hands on his face, the memory of me smiling into his shoulder could he feel how my heart beat quickly under his hand on my chest - did he ever pocket a peal of my laughter to bring back the sun on a future cloudy day
will his body shiver to remember how i tickled the hair at the nape of his neck with my breath i wonder if my name is tucked under his tongue when he gets cold at night, when someone mentions my name around him, like the dead has come back to haunt him
i did not spend enough time in his space for there to be an abyss when i left but will there be an ache?
I will demonize my memories with you to keep myself away.Ā
the narrator in this story cannot be trusted.Ā
perhaps I never stopped being rotten - maybe I was just cutting away the parts I thought should be thrown away.
what am I supposed to do when thereās more thrown away than left over?