Any Moment Might Be Our Last. Everything Is More Beautiful Because We're Doomed. You Will Never Be Lovelier

Words can be razor sharp and undermine both reason and heart … The words can be soft petals in flower, barely touching the skin and leaving burning in the depths of being.

siir-poesia ©

Las palabras pueden ser afilada navaja y socavar tanto a la razón como al corazón… Las palabras pueden ser suave pétalo en flor, apenas rozando la piel y dejar ardor en el fondo del ser…

siir-poesia ©

The Never Was # 5. Another little burst of words that was on its way to somethin, but never got there. Turned out to be somethin anyway. (at Helena, Montana) https://www.instagram.com/p/CIrPLj5lDWw/?igshid=cl1vaps73rb9

“Just because you can feel another person’s emotions doesn’t make you responsible for them.”

— Sarah Brooke

how do i delete myself and everything ive ever said from other ppl’s minds

Spring Dark Academia Outfits

A rainy day: A pale, oversized sweater with embroidered flowers and vines on the collar of the button down underneath. Hair frizzy with the humidity, wrestled into a messy bun or left in a puffy cloud. Loose, comfortable tartan pants or skirt. Doc Martens or some other combat boots that can splash through puddles. Long trench coat. A dramatically oversized black umbrella, preferably with some sort of fancy handle. 

Strolling through sunny streets: A jewel colored tank top or bralette under an oversized white button down, left unbuttoned and loose. High waisted tan shorts or cigarette pants with brown leather shoes. Hair is loose and overgrown after the cold months of not cutting it. Gold jewelry wrapped around fingers and throat in the shapes of arching branches, thick with flowers and thorns. A baker boy hat to keep loose hair pushed back.

The birds are singing: Flowing white linen skirt or pants. A billowy shirt or sweater in pale colors with ballooning sleeves. A silk bandana over the hair to keep it from fluttering, ticklish against the face. Or perhaps one of the first flowers tucked carefully behind one ear; it slips every so often, but every time fingers brush against it something light and airy ignites in the chest. 

Not ready for summer: Making one last use of winter fashion before the heat forces it back into the closet. A black turtleneck and plaid skirt, but now without a heavy overcoat or warm leggings. Leather boots now used for splashing through puddles instead of snow piles. Dark green sweaters and skirts are getting worn especially, as they match both the new plants springing from between cobblestones and the evergreen trees that never left. Dramatic lipstick, red like freshly crushed fruit. 

Perfect weather to pretend to be an archeologist: Something in all tan and white. A light brown sweater vest over a white cotton shirt with the sleeves pushed up haphazardly. Tan, high waisted palazzo or midi pants. Rich brown leather belt with a gold buckle that matches the comfortable shoes perfectly. Egyptian coins fashioned into earrings. Golden round glasses that keep slipping over the nose, only to be pushed back up again.  

Picnic time: A loose, flowing midi dress with puff sleeves and a delicate floral print. Brown leather lace up boots. Hair in a long braid or up in a French twist, the comb covered in jeweled flowers or perhaps skulls. Rings on almost every finger, each one placed deliberately with an affirmation spoken softly on the lips: this one to protect, this one to offer insight, this one to help me remember. A picnic basket in one hand, worn leather satchel around the other shoulder filled with study materials to enjoy as deeply as the fresh fruit.

You are just another name I still remember, a song I no longer dare to listen to, a voice I can't forget but I will. You're now a stranger I'd never really wish to know, a road I'll never choose, a bridge I'd always burn, a place I'd never visit. You are just a memory I'd never ever like to cherish. I want myself to get rid of every trace of you. All that you left behind is not my mess to carry, no part of you could be a treasure, it's just trash.

—Trashy memories // Sparkandashes (via tumblr)

no one paints portraits of their lover’s decaying soul and moral corruption’s physical manifestation to keep their lover themself youthful anymore 😔 they don’t do it like they used to 😔

 when sylvia plath wrote “the silence depressed me. it wasn’t the silence of silence. it was my own silence.” and when anne carson wrote “why does tragedy exist? because you are full of rage. why are you full of rage? because you are full of grief.” and when jenny slate wrote “and i am getting older but i am not growing up and my heart is getting soft dark spots on it like a fruit that has gone bad.” and when virginia woolf wrote “to want and not to have, sent all up her body a hardness, a hollowness, a strain.” and when susanna kaysen wrote “when you’re sad, you need to hear your sorrow structured into sound.” and when margaret atwood wrote “already my childhood seemed far away – a remote age, faded and bittersweet, like dried flowers. did i regret its loss, did i want it back? i didn’t think so…” and when gillian flynn wrote “i was not a lovable child, and i’d grown into a deeply unlovable adult.”