My alone feels so good, I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude.
Warsan Shire (via arachnephiliac)

(Source: dvemon, via arachnephiliac)

Relationship advice: Find someone who accepts you for the lazy piece of shit you are.
Unknown (via zombridiaries)

(Source: quotecomedy, via ashi-kelkum-ishi)


Rudolf Koppitz - Das Leben, 1927

“I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.”-Sylvia Plath
creative, smart, idealist, loner, attracted to sad things, disorganized, avoidant, can be overwhelmed by unpleasant feelings…
an excerpt from an article about INFP’s (via lyonsbrandon)

(via mirroir)

You create
one absence
after another
in order to
control it.

Margaret Atwood, from Selected Poems II: 1976 - 1986 (via ontheedgeofdarkness)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via ontheedgeofdarkness)


R\A\W M\A\T\E\R\I\A\L  \ # 1465 \ Max Kuiper \ 22\oct\13

The sleep of the person and the sleep of the others, unfortunately, despite the blood-stained broken television screen, awakened as a vision in the foreheadWhat is expected of the night, when the bodies are smothered underneath newspapers, when the bodies are mimicking the poses of Pompeii victims - will new words come to new life in it?
The light that announces lost days defines and blinds the eye
Bloody secrets between shoulder blades and collarbonesA sea of ​​blood and ink in the cellar of every supermarket
Ink flowing from newspapers mingles with the silence of the night and the mystery of the sinus

The high and sharp metallic sound of a star that penetrates an ear for the first time

-Livre de fragments de lettres de violence et de secrets\Book of fragments of letters of violence and secrets\found images, reworked by Max KuiperText: Saul Smaragd

Lost Ritual - 48 Photos Max Kuiper – 2012\13
I bleed poetry and think
nothing of the consequences.
I let Want speak to me
in a steady breath and listen to
it openly. Sometimes I respond too-
by draping myself in candlelight
and lace, sending out an invitation
to another to learn the softness of my skin,
or simply shrugging my shoulders.
I feel logic, I think emotion. I am
with Whitman, singing the song of
myself over and over again,
until the notes are memorized.
I rewrite it. I find a new beat.
I give myself away in waves
and group whatever pieces
of themselves others give me
into something I can call “me.”
I am relearning the tune of myself everyday.
Memory says,
Ah, but you have done this dance
so many times before
And I respond,
I will do this dance inside
as many different cities,
bodies, and seasons that I can.
I am not looking to be narrow
in mind, experience, or belief.
I am not looking to be
contained in “girl,” “sister,”
“ex-,” “lover,” “woman,” or “friend.”
I will die
a verb,
a force, a thing that has
shifted from
country to country
and bled out so many names
that no noun
can hold it.

I Sing The Song of Myself | Lora Mathis  (via lora-mathis)

(via purelikeheaven)


// five lines. 2014.