I read to you / from The New Yorker, ate suppers / you wouldn’t eat, fussed / with your flowers, / joked with your nurses, as if I / were the balm among lepers, / as if I could undo / a life in hours / if I never said goodbye.

Anne Sexton, The Division of Parts

‘Maybe, just maybe, the spirit of the poems will go on past both of us, and one or two will be remembered in one hundred years. . . and maybe not’

- Anne Sexton ‘Mercies’, Introduction by Linda Gray Sexton

‘And now, while Christ stays

fastened to his Crucifix

so that love may praise

his sacrifice

and not the grotesque metaphor,

you come, a brave ghost, to fix

in my mind without praise

or paradise

to make me your inheritor.’

- The Division of Parts, Anne Sexton

‘What is the point if forever doesn’t exist?’ The one question that has been whispered and passed down every century, lived through every lifetime. I say ‘perhaps to be immortal is to remember’ but how can that be true when we are conditioned to forget

History turned to stories, stories turned to folklore, word of mouth stretching the tales further apart until all is lost and gone

And what are we left with?

“You can suffer nostalgia in the presence of the beloved if you glimpse a future where the beloved is no more”

- Milan Kundera

Now I’m left asking myself, if there’s a god up watching me i just can’t see, then how could he build a world but still not fix you and me

Room 309, Creeper

Some mornings i wake up and the sky is dark and the coffee is bitter and i wish to be anywhere but in that moment

Some mornings i wake up and i listen to good music and drink good coffee and i admire how the sky can go from dark and cloudy to a beautiful blue and I spend the day admiring the golden shafts of sun that find their way into my room

In these small moments, when the sun graces my skin and the breeze moving through my open window reminds to breathe, i remember i am human

When you’re working on a self portrait n you’re like ‘damn, we’re just millions of line and colours and layers put together and then taken apart to change over and over for the rest of our lives’

no one:

not even a breeze:

Henry Winter at any minor inconvenience:

Happy Valentine’s Day to all the porn bots that DM me on a daily basis, they the real ones 😌💕

‘Let me be torn away, then!’ I cried. ‘Let another help me!’

‘No; you shall tear yourself away, none shall help you: you shall yourself pluck out your right eye; yourself cut off your right hand: your heart shall be the victim, and you the priest to transfix it.’

- ‘Jane Eyre’, Charlotte Brontë

‘Last summer’s reeds are all engraved in ice / as is your image in my eye; dry frost / glazes the window of my hurt; what solace / can be struck from rock to make heart’s waste / grow green again? Who’d walk in this bleak place?’

Winter Landscape, with Rooks, Sylvia Plath, 1956

‘Someone has to leave first. This is a very old story. There is no other version of this story.’

-Richard Silken

‘If you’re anything like me // You knock on wood every time you make plans // You cross your fingers, hold your breathe // Wish on lucky numbers and eyelashes // Your superstitions were the lone survivors of the shipwreck’

- If You’re Anything Like Me, Taylor Swift

Why do I read classics? Because who in modern day literature would make the main love interest pretend to travel to the other side of the country just to break into his own house disguised as an old hag, harass his guests into gettting their fortunes read, all so he can to talk to his crush that literally lives in the same house as him

Self care is fashioning a ball gown out of bed sheets and pretending you’re a lone and mysterious figure at a ball in the 1800s

‘Alas poor gentleman,

He look’d not like the ruins of his youth,

But like the ruins of those ruins’

- John Ford, The Broken Heart

*inhales*

‘TO LOVE ANOTHER PERSON IS TO SEE THE FACE OF GOD’

[rest]

You know when you finish writing a song or poem and you look around you and wonder if you’re okay lol

I have heard of daydreams - is she in a daydream now? Her eyes are fixed on the floor, but I am sure they do not see it - her sight seems turned in, gone down into her heart: she is looking at what she can remember, I believe; not at what is really present.

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë