there we are again
I'm Aleishia and I'm terribly ordinary. This is where I come to pretend otherwise.

At some point it becomes true that all stories
are love stories. all making, love making.
I didn’t make this rule. but it binds me
all the same. I wish there were a law
against condescending against love. against
the economy of fear that says your joy
means less joy for me as if love
were pie, or money, or fossil fuel
dug or pumped from the earth, gone
when it’s gone. it’s just not true. the heart
with its gift for magnificent expansion
is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar
cringing in its wallet. when you say darling,
the world lights up at its edges. when mouths
find mouths and minds follow or minds find
minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –
how about you call that sacred. how about you raise
your veined right hand and swear on the blood
that branches there, yes. I take this crush
to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy
until the bending’s its own pleasure. I will memorize
photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce
to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,
and dance – there’s a perfection only the impossible kiss
possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked
in the dark of a room to which you will never
return. anything that moves the world toward light
is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,
lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this
is the substance that holds our little atoms together
into bodies. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth.
and all we know of the gods.
Marty McConnell, “Three of Cups” (via letters-to-nobody)

(via 5000letters)

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"how would you describe yourself"


(Source: unperceptible, via russian-snow-princess)

14 hours ago | Permalink
Bring me warm rain and dried lavender and you. I want you most of all.
Emery Allen (via karengillan)

(Source: wethinkwedream, via karengillan)

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"Sometimes it ends up different and it is better that way."

So the other day I got left one of those little “you have a parcel but weren’t home so come pick it up from the post office thanks” notes but it somehow ended up getting thrown out with junk mail so I didn’t know about it but my mum found it in the bin the next day and gave it to me, and then yesterday morning I tried to go get it from the post office but couldn’t find anywhere to park because it’s currently Tulip Time in my town and there are tourists GALORE and also I’m rly bad at parking and cannot reverse park on the main street if I happen to find a parking spot and I don’t know what’s in this damn parcel but I’m intrigued as to why the universe is so intent on keeping it from me!!!!

1 day ago | Permalink
Only trees and more trees and plenty of blue sky. And you could laugh, Sally. You could go to sleep and wake up and never have to think who likes and doesn’t like you. You could close your eyes and you wouldn’t have to worry what people said because you never belonged here anyway and nobody could make you sad and nobody would think you’re strange because you like to dream and dream. And no one could yell at you if they saw you out in the dark leaning against a car, leaning against somebody without someone thinking you are bad, without somebody saying it is wrong, without the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake when all you wanted, all you wanted, Sally, was to love and to love and to love and to love, and no one could call that crazy.
Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street (via wintriestmoods)

(Source: lifeinpoetry, via wintriestmoods)

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