TheVirtuesofFortitude

The Brinksmanship of Womanhood. Literature, Men, Poetry, Art and Beauty.
Ask me anything!

babyybarbieee:

❤️❤️

sigyn-loyalwifeofloki:

At the Target I work at we’re getting this coke machine where you can experiment with coke flavors, but I forget the proper term for it.

Diabeetus.

classyemmarie:

no-more-yielding-but-a-dream:

classyemmarie:

MY BEST FRIEND WAS AT RICHARD III TONIGHT AND SHE SNEEZED DURING MARTIN FREEMANS MONOLOGUE AND MARTIN FREEMAN SAID BLESS YOU

SHE HAS BEEN BLESSED BY MARTIN FREEMAN

he broke character?!

YES AND THE WHOLE THEATER LAUGHED AND THEN HE JUST KEPT GOING!

MARTIN

illegiblescribbles:

he kisses like a religious experience
as if my body were a church
like my name is a prayer on his lips
and the soft huffs of breath from my mouth
are all he needs to be pardoned from their sins
that cradling me in his arms
and stroking my skin
and grazing his teeth along the
collarbones,
bottom lip,
inside of my thighs,
will grant him into heaven

Know Completely

I could be
in a room
one hundred people
and still not
know myself.
But when I am
in a room
with just you
I know myself
completely.

The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

Pablo Neruda (via ironworthstriking)

(Source: laurendooorhinge)

daveocean:

R.I.P. Amy Winehouse (September 14, 1983 - July 23, 2011)

NO

(Source: serfbwort)

Bottled Soul

You can bottle water.
You can place
a thing that flows from
nature
into a thing that pollutes
nature.
You can bottle a heart.
You can take
a beating, life-giving thing
and put it
in another’s hands.
You can bottle a soul.
You can take
a thing that shines
for eternity
and never share it
with anyone.

Eli, Eli

nectar-traps:

Sunday, and the Son
is lying, nailed to a cross

on the ground, and he is
himself smiling,

blue-lipped; his lungs,
dark and floral in his chest.

This is the resurrection:
this sarcophagus of flesh;

the boulder of his final breath,
rolled from his lips,

and on his tongue,
a sabachthani  has been left

to its decay, death-laced; these voices
laying eggs between his teeth.

Sunday, and the Father
kneels beside his fertile son

to sow the flesh
he’d formed to rot

with poppy seeds. 

…luxury has never appealed to me, I like simple things, books, being alone, or with somebody who understands.
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