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For months I watched her. Sometimes

from the edge of her guest bed where we
lay like dirty sheets; puddles of the world.

Id-ridden teeth behind the lips of our kisses
will be all that I’ll remember in twenty goddamn
years. The way I loved her as a woman, and

you loved me as a man.

With every touch and feeling curated, like our
creator was a lover who should learn to swallow
pain: in the deepest pit of the gut, between
the very legs with which I walked away.

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He said,

… –“papa was
a sparrow

with doleful eyes; head
cocked, east side.
all genuflect

on sky scraped knees.

sunk in air too thick for
flying He shut windows

and stained sheets;

empty in the end like light–
less rooms, dregs

of glass, or words

so faint and vacuous that even I
never thought twice

of their meaning. Messy
but never with prints,

of whom each shard had once belonged.

… –the little boys and
dead birds scattered

in the streets.

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BOYS DON’T CRY

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Tumblr

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En mai, fais ce quil te plaît…

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The Dreamers directed by Bernardo Bertolucci

With Michael Pitt, Eva Green, Louis Garrel

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"Dear Father, I have no intention of making a peace pact between my body and my soul, and neither do I intend to hold back. Therefore, allow me to tame my body by not altering my diet; I will not stop for the rest of my life, until there is not more life left. You should not think that my body is so mortified and weak as it seems; it acts this way so that I should not demand the debt it contracted in the world, when it liked pleasure. Oh my body, why do you not help me to serve my creator and redeemer? Why are you not as quick, to obey as you were to disobey His commands? Do not lament, do not cry; do not pretend to be half dead. You will bear the weight that I place on your shoulders, all of it. I not only wish to abstain from bodily food but I wish to die a thousand times a way, were it possible, in this mortal life of mine."

— Saint Margaret of Cortona; February 22, 1297 (via minor-arcana)

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My other less personal tumblr, where I reblog a lot for stuff and have a lot less pointless poetry & cryptic updates.

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Doctor Blind - Emily Haines & The Soft Skeleton

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I wish my secrets were still secrets, but of innocence I am Lady Macbeth. The indelible blood from which I rid my hands is indeed contrite, though of no one but myself.

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Asleep, The Smiths

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