stillbirthed:

The girl next door is waiting for you to _____ her. Nevermind whether she is catalogue busty Oriental or steamy Latina. The girl next door is waiting for you to shoot your load, so lengthen and harden your critical theory of grand narrative. Can you fit yourself inside her hole she takes it in the ______; she is waiting. Think Vaseline, think shallow breathing, think yank up her skirt. Whatever she is she is a slut she is wet she is spread open wide panting broken pulled open bound bled. She is deep she is pulling from the throat she is making noise making miniskirt hot tight. She is a metaphor, an uproarious dominatrix consumed with your ethics. You are asking for clarification, for a spot of vulnerability, where she is tender, worn and rubbed to rawness. Blow her and the air smarts. She is a contusion calcified infection. She is not tucked between her thighs. She is muffled space windless. She is not a slippery conduit for your pathos. She is decentralized, adaptive. She is handing you her reins, having relinquished notions of bliss as indicated by keywords: plume, fragrant, dictation. She is absence of scribe, annotation, and overcompensation. She’s weary of your abstracts, diversions, and chalk scrawls. She is the price of admission, carnival brochure gloss religion. She is your rite of passage; this means she will lube your rod in a way it has never been lubed before. Here is her open mouth, stretched open for you to push yourself into this lipsticked mouth you have permission to shove in all lost children nightmares broken beer bottles cigarette ash splintered crucifixion poison flowers antidepressant side effects television commercials and pity fucks. She will teach you rituals to survive drought, fertilize the dirt, and spill yourself into it. She will sell you magic pills packed into hand-sewn hemp pockets. She is a dying star, and so when you enter her, she pulls you in hard. You enter her lightless and wet warehoused body, oxidized and crumbling. Were she beautiful you would call her patina spire stretching to sky. She is frayed copper wire dynamite stimuli. Don’t be a manifesto or cliché. Continue to drawl and to smash, to ensconce inside her deep, deep dark.  

Hole; Barbara Jane Reyes

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"Poor boy, there is no hope for you. I have discovered your great wound; this flower in your side is destroying you." - Franz Kafka  (via lunelait)

(Source: babyfaline, via lunelait)

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"Moonlight making crosses
on your body, and me putting my mouth on every one." - Richard Siken, Crush  (via babyfaline)

(Source: luxurists, via babyfaline)

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"I wanted to write “stay”
on your sides, surround
your bed with oceans
of salt. I hope he folds you
into a fox, loves you
like a splintered arrow,
brandishes the kill
of your lips. May the bouquet
of your hips wither.
May the wolves
forget your name." - J. Bradley  (via babyfaline)

(Source: atomiclanterns, via babyfaline)

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lunelait:

_{if i could id kiss your lips so hard your entire face would bruise
put your name and blood on everyone and make the evening news
id chain our hips together so that you could never leave
id make you love me so much that you’d ask permission to breathe}

(Source: 2ci)

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"When your beauty struck me, it dissolved me. Deep down, I am not different from you. I dreamed you, I wished for your existence. I see in you that part of me which is you. I surrender my sincerity because if I love you it means we share the same fantasies, we share the same madness." -  Anaïs Nin (via beryl-azure)

(Source: serialstranger, via word-digest)

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(Source: obit, via virgin-prostitute)

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"Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
Will we sing, and bless this place." - ~William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream  (via floriate)

(Source: seabois, via floriate)

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& older