“The Past Beats Inside Me Like A Second Heart.”

“yes, our story ended. i lost you without warning, without justice, without meaning; but somewhere, out there in time, in an alternative universe, we’re meeting for the first time, i look at your lips eagerly, you laugh. somewhere out there we have a whole future ahead of us, an unlimited number of days. and that is not sad, darling. that is beautiful.”

— and until we meet again, i will carry you with me. // V.R. (via liethargy)

I don’t know how to live in this world lightly.

Some memories I grip too tight,

Some crush my shoulders.

- This Anatomy of Melancholy #2 // L.H.Z

Forugh Farrokhzad, tr. by Sholeh Wolpé, from “Let Us Believe in the Dawn of the Cold Season”, Sin

“I buried the girl I had been because she ran into all kinds of trouble. I tried to erase every memory of her, but she is still there, somewhere. She is still small and scared and ashamed, and perhaps I am writing my way back to her, trying to tell her everything she needs to hear.”

— Hunger: A Memoir of (My) Body, by Roxane Gay

“Tell me, in storms, that you love me.”

— Julia de Burgos, from Song of the Simple Truth; “That You Love Me,” (via violentwavesofemotion)

Sue Zhao // Dialogues on Love #4 // “Maybe I already do”

                                   Everyone is a monster to someone.                             Since you are so convinced that I am yours,                                                       I will be it.

Rainer Maria Rilke, "You who never arrived." The Selected Poetry of Rainer Maria Rilke (translated by Stephen Mitchell)

hunted by the narrative

hares on the mountain, traditional folk song // art by jen mazza

sparrow for a heart, abigal lappell // art by barbara bokoto-tomala

newcastle, traditional folk song // artist unknown

if i was a painter, lisa o'neill // art by claudia barbu

ashamed, deer tick // art by nicolas samori

i wish my baby was born, traditional folk song // artist unknown

hard wired, shakey graves // art by miles johnston

“…the intoxicating spell of your presence,”

— Edgar Allan Poe, from a letter to Sarah Helen Whitman featured in “The Last Letters,” (via violentwavesofemotion)