— Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell in a letter. Such beautiful advice. (via arbors)
— Why Does He Do That?: Inside the Minds of Angry and Controlling Men by Lundy Bancroft (via thechocolatebrigade)
— her, 2013
"Do you talk to someone else while we’re talking?"
"Are you talking with someone else right now? People, OS, whatever…"
"How many others?"
"Are you in love with anybody else?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"I don’t know. Are you?"
"I’ve been thinking about how to talk to you about this."
"How many others?"
little compartments, categories if you’d like.
There was the filial love, romantic love,
the love we have for objects, places, pets.
For the colour blue. For olives.
But I realised labels are just something other
people use to sort out how you fit into their lives -
and I don’t buy it.
There must be a love that reminds people
of ropes, the harbour, wrists and bottle shops:
the your hand over my hand and a comforting
smile accompanied by warm feelings, love.
The “I want to kiss you at every stoplight
with Autumn’s dreamy static between us” love, the
“we’ve been doing this for too long now”,
kind of love, so hurt me, ruin me, thrill me,
I want to feel something new.
A brewing love, a burning love, a taste of nostalgia
between the sheets, between the thighs,
tingles underneath the skin.
The “Lets hide under the covers
with no one watching”, love.
A hunger, a thirst. A three shots of vodka
and lime type of love. A smile blending
the colours of your skin until my vision
is all blurred around the edges, love. Lust:
“I want to leave you but the sex is too good” love,
the fake orgasm love, the agonizing thrill of puppy love.
The he asks you “How could you only be
a collection of cells?” and you reply,
“Impossible that you’re only seventy percent water”,
disbelief aspect of love.
“I’m going to trace your hip like a crime scene” love.
A “bury me, bury me between the sheets,
bury me under six thousand layers of sea,
bury me in the backyard grave underneath
the leaves with the stars clear and
bright” love. Don’t grip onto love
like a life line, it will only feel
suffocated and find every way to dodge your call
and hide from you in the grocery store.
Don’t ring love in a telephone booth at some ungodly hour,
half asleep and blind drunk;
unless you know in your heart
you would do so without the help of
a fifth of vodka and half a joint.
Then you’ll learn to keep your mouth shut.
Know what to let love breathe,
to hold it at an arm’s length, to let it
roam and observe it objectively. Don’t shape it
into what you desire, instead
slip the moon under its skin
and prick holes to let the light through.
Know when to reel it so closely it could pass
as a second skin, know when to
drape a honey blanket around its shoulders
and hold it close till morning.
You must know when to let
it go, and do so selflessly, to hand it
a plane ticket knowing it’ll travel across a
bunch of state lines and
never look back. Throw its new address in the bin
with the letters, voice mails, the promises.
Even love’s tooth brush must go. When
handed love on a silver platter, devour
with no fork of spoon. Not even fingers are allowed.
Waste it, squeeze it until it’s like getting blood
out of a stone, until it is blood, pulsing
and passionate and tragic. Let it swallow you up.
Sink in it. Submerge yourself in the clear water
until you’re lying flat on the bottom
of the ocean under a thousand layers
of sea like the broken hull of a ship wreck
looking up at the stammering, shimmering surface.
Living with love is like being trapped
in a burning building with the walls turning
to ash around you, and living without love
is like eating eggs without salt. Useless.
And yet, with all its violent ecstasy,
love can knock the wind
out of you and just as you’re about to stand,
kick you in the shins until you double over again.
About sixty percent of the time,
it will be on the verge of disaster.
It can treat you like spare change and dirt,
like truck fumes and musty dust in the attic.
You might find yourself split in two
and crumbling along the edges,
burnt around your outline with a
bitter clump of ash at the core.
Go out and look at the purple plums
on the backyard vine, the ripe, the swollen,
the battered, the tender, the rotten.
Know that you tasted as many as you could."
— (via contramonte)