achilles is my spirit guide, half-god and still panicked and runned away when his crush kissed him
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"let the kid inside of you come out" no man i was a gifted kid. you dont want my kid to come out trust me.
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-Benedict Smith, I wish I wrote the way I thought
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text src; sober II, lorde // glory & gore, lorde // sappho // the secret history, donna tartt
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Things may be fucked but atleast it's October
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" tell me true
my heart is blue
my love has gone a-way "
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if you keep being so cute i will soon see myself forced to put out my sword and fight you
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death kissed us the same ways. we drank its poison with the same smirk.
Anna Swir, from A Book of Luminous Things: An International Anthology of Poetry, “The Same Inside,” tr. by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan
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Portait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
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im not the main character im the kid who sits in the penultimate row and looks at the teacher like im better than them
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school stress can seem overwhelming at the point whole life seems overwhelming , but remember: you can always turn to the woods, you still have seasons, coffee, people's love, you still have books and movies, animals and fresh air. you still have your beautiful mind. this is real life. not school, that's a part of your road in society, but society is not life. little things are life. love is life. nothing else matters.
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be gentle not handsome. politeness is more hot. kindess uush sexy af.
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i saw a witch in church, and i fell in love with her immediately.
scarlett flames her hair, of west she smelled, the perfume of divine, of freedom, of angelic terror. and while the priest was enumerating my sins and my faults, her voice sang for me, the enchanted melody of magic, of time, of nature. and when finally she turned back for a moment, looking at me, i saw the face of a goddess. my mother always told me the devil whispers in your ear his message, but there was no whisper in my head when she looked at me, when her water eyes melted mine, i only heard a beat, the one of my heart, there, when before lived silence.
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i hate society. why cant i just wander in the french countryside and paint without the presence of modern society? why cant i just be a homeless poet in london? that shit lost its aestetich.
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L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Green Gables
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" i found you in the ashes of who you used to be. i offer you now my hand, rise again. "
"rise and rage."
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