sak; 21; she/her; infj; libra; surely that is a silmaril that shines now in the west?

petaltexturedskies:

Dacia Maraini, tr. by Tim Vode, from “Dreams of Clytemnestra” wr. c. 1994

seedaylight:

favorite 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒌𝒍𝒐𝒓𝒆 lyrics - 19/?

𝐢𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 - 𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐰𝐢𝐟𝐭

stormbornes:

“For you, I’d steal the stars.”

— A Six Word Poem ( on how you deserve galaxies)

flowerytale:

Forugh Farrokhzad, from ‘Forgive Her’, Sin: Selected Poems

goodwitchs:

Women have minds and they have souls as well as just hearts. They’ve got ambition and they’ve got talent as well as just beauty. I am so sick of people saying that love is just all a woman is fit for. I’m so sick of it! But — I am so lonely.

petaltexturedskies:

The blue of the sky falls over me like silk, the flowers begin to burn, and I want to live my life all over again, to begin again, to be utterly wild.

Mary Oliver, excerpt of “a meeting”, in the truro bear and other adventures

weirwolves:

hot summer streets
and the pavements are burning
I sit around
trying to smile but
the air is so heavy and dry

sonnywortzik:

“So here it is. My friends call me he, or they. The government and most of my family call me she. The media calls me she, because I don’t trust them enough to request that they do anything else. My lovers call me sweetheart. Or baby. Somewhere in all of that I find myself. These are, after all, only words.”

— Ivan E. Coyote, Gender Failure

foulladyfortune:

@lgbtqcreators creator meme — [1/8] lgbtq+ relationships

Patroclus, he says, Patroclus, Patroclus. Over and over until it is sound only. Somewhere Odysseus is kneeling, urging food and drink. A fierce red rage comes, and he almost kills him there. But he would have to let go of me. He cannot. He holds me so tightly I can feel the faint beat of his chest, like the wings of a moth. An echo, the last bit of spirit still tethered to my body. A torment.

petaltexturedskies:

I stand in the window and watch the moon. She is thin and lustreless, But I love her. I know the moon, and this is an alien city.

Amy Lowell, from a London thoroughfare. 2 A.M.; sword blades and poppy seed: poems, 1914