poetry and photographs and all the thoughts i never think to tell anyone but a blog.

We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.

—T.S. Eliot, “The Cocktail Party” + (via mythologyofblue)

(via dreamboatcourtney)


I am running the shower so hot that I can hardly breathe from the dense rise of steam. Carefully, in tepid movements, I peel off my t-shirt, your t-shirt,

the one that smells of you, of your soap and thickness,

that deep and masculine scent that leaves me reeling, gutless,

and study a bite mark on my breast. I remember your hand on my throat, the way it makes me move, involuntarily, a pulse of desperation—



In a cab from Brooklyn, I am pinned light and fucking brilliance. Fat cat, summer sun, sick with realization and sick from actualization,

you have placed a haze on me,

such brutal, feminine weakness,

clenched thighs and, I cannot catch my breath, flushed cheeks.

I watch clouds descend onto Manhattan and find myself tonguing the taste of you, enraptured by my lust and delirium.


You will analyze this;

I will feel it.




False rape accusations are an anomaly.

True rape accusations are a norm.

You’re, quite literally, more likely to be killed by a comet than falsely accused of rape.

Re-blog now, read later.

"Because 1 in 33 men will be raped in his lifetime, men are 82,000x more likely to be raped than falsely accused of rape. It seems many of us would do well to pay more attention to how rape culture affects us all than be paranoid about false accusers.”

(via drpepper10)