(Source: bedbones)
(Source: brendanzig)
(Source: skeleton-garden)
(Source: myquotelibrary)
I’m ridiculously tired; yet I sleep over twelve hours a night and take naps during the day.
Trying to ponder my boredom and clear depression (which I have been trying to deny) gets me no where.
I have a lover, yet we have very little passion. We understand each other mentally and physically; but we’re both bracing ourself for his leaving: he’s traveling far away from me in a matter of weeks. Closeness and emotional intimacy isn’t exactly an option.
My dearest friend is going through the same bouts of depression as I am. We’re both tired constantly. I can see that she’s not doing well, in the same rut as I.
So what do I do? Do I meditate on this? Should I search for the passion and lust and romance and thrill I’m craving? Or should I embrace the zen life and accept my own mediocrity? I don’t know; I have no clue.
(Source: lucifelle)
I am not a lesbian. Not bi. Not straight. Not pan. Not gay.
I am queer. Intentionally. I intentionally use this term although others may apply.
Because being queer is political. It is fucking shit up. It is reconstructing broken elements. It is loving multiple sexes and genders and expressions, alone and simultaneously.
When I fuck my partner it is queer. When I am fucked it is queer. When I fuck myself it is queer.
My dress is just as queer as my combat boots.
I am always queer. Intentionally. Femmes and Family: I am Queer Intentionally
(Source: lsdemon)
- Interviewer: Does something bother you? How can you write poetry if you are not bothered by something?
- Leonard Cohen: I'm bothered when I wake in the morning. My real concern is to discover whether or not I am in a state of grace and if I discover that I am not I go back to bed.
as sleep. It is a tango. It is a waterfall between
two countries, the river that tried to drown you.
It is a city where men speak a language
you can fake if you must. Traci Brimhall, from “Through a Glass Darkly”
(Source: proustitute)
(via foxesinbreeches)
The first short story I’ve written is “lovely, but not worthy of submission” according to my professor. I feel stumped and silly for putting so much effort into something only to discover I’m not as fabulous as I once thought I was.



