Let me bite you a little, just tender
enough to leave a small bruise, easily
hidden, that goes away in time.
Sam Cheuk, Postscripts from a City Burning; “11/06/19”
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A British padre saying a prayer over a dying German, near Epehy - France, 18th September 1918.
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Ophelia thinks that love is claustrophobic.
It will squeeze her smaller until she's gone.
— Kala Godin, Witchcraft and Monsters: A Poetry Collection, (2018)
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Leonard Cohen, from The Spice-Box of Earth; "Beneath My Hands"
Text ID: When you call me close / to tell me / your body is not beautiful / I want to summon / the eyes and hidden mouths / of stone and light and water / to testify against you.
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When I looked at her I wanted both to touch her and watch her from a distance, to hold her and hide from her, to kiss her and ask her to forgive me—
Amal El-Mohtar, from The Honey Month; “Day 1: Fireweed Honey”
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Infour Another Lando Norris overtaking masterclass 😮💨
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The conversation of kisses. Subtle, engrossing, fearless, transforming.
Alice Munro - Runaway, 2004
2013 Nobel laureate has died at 92. Canadian author Alice Munro was an inspiration.
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Spoons, however:
there are no spoons in Nature,
or not on animals.
We imitate ourselves.
Here, let me help you:
two cupped hands.
Margaret Atwood, Table Settings
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They say scent is the sense most tied to memory
When I smell rot and decay, it makes me feel like a child
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Truth is, I want you to be safe,
want you to sleep so I can sleep.
Sam Cheuk, Postscripts from a City Burning; “11/06/19 (2)”
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Collecting personal belongings, pay books and identity discs from men of the 11th Battalion, Royal Scots, about to go "over the top", 1918.
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I set myself on fire,
And let everyone watch as I burn.
When the fire has gone out,
I pick my ashes up,
And put them in my ribcage.
I ask myself,
“Why did nobody burn with me?”
— Kala Godin, Witchcraft and Monsters: A Poetry Collection, (2018)
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Leonard Cohen, from The Spice-Box of Earth; "Beneath My Hands"
Text ID: Wherever you move / I hear the sounds of closing wings / of falling wings.
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I am sad because I love you, because I love you so much, and because I am not a bee to buzz with you lightly. I am not a flower, not a tree, not a rain-hewn stone. I am not a storm or a cresting wave, not a thorn or a vine. I am not the sun stinging the water, not the moon on the snow. I am not a star in the dark. I am not the dew-wet wind, not the cloud-stained dawn. I am only a girl, a small, plain girl, a girl who must smear her lips in honey to be found sweet.
Amal El-Mohtar, from The Honey Month; “Day 28: French Chestnut Honey”
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