Vacation. by Jenn Blair


Evening tea, morning tea

The first night I have spent alone at the cabin since mum passed.

(via nanqijala)

Persephone Books

Persephone Books reprints neglected fiction and non-fiction by mid-twentieth century (mostly women) writers.”

(Source: the-library-and-step-on-it, via alwaystakeatoweltoaparty)

It’s taken me time to appreciate
the way you hold the word love
like something that’s breakable.
I don’t know how to be tentative
with my emotions, and I often
let them out before they’re ready;
love always looks more pathetic
still crawling and needing to be
held. When I finally hear the things
that you feel, they are grown and
careful. They are large and shy.
I want you to know that your
cautious love is something I
admire. Love isn’t always
bigger just because it is louder.

anne, there are a lot of poems about showy, ridiculous, unmannerly love, but sometimes giant love is timid. (via anneisrestless)

(via anneisrestless)



adoration implauds tympantingly … with
the high arc obtexting to the sense of decorps…
all the sights songrounds come to myth the
conditions of a pose formendaring…
let terms toolex the senscene
and complait the addecorality…
through line squiltings
and treat mental measures…
in the manner of the…


"Being Arlo" by Mitchell Garrard


"Being Arlo" by Mitchell Garrard

It all comes down to this.
To the fact that I have nothing
to write about anymore.
My hair is blonde now.
People look at me more. Try to
figure out if it’s natural. Think that
if they stare long enough, they can
will my roots to show themselves.

My hair is blonde now, and,
somehow, that changes everything.
My friend calls me ‘striking’ and
some guy in the city tells me I’m
‘unforgettable,’ but no one wants
to kiss me. Or at least no one
does it.

I am still finding strands of dark hair
on my pillow from before. Before I
really committed and even dyed my eyebrows. Before I decided
that something needed to change
and that it was me.
No, I’m not hiding something.
Yes, I feel prettier now.

So I’ve got nothing. No one new
to hurt over or hurt for.
It’s all quiet here, like before the
cannons. Before the first shot
and the first person to fall to
the ground, lifeless.
Before the war? The storm?
I hardly know anymore.
I’m trying to enjoy this, and I am,
but why is it so quiet?
Why am I always waiting for

It scares me that I need a tragedy.
That maybe I always will.

Caitlyn Siehl, Before the Storm (via alonesomes)

(via brouhahamagazine)


“Maybe, sometimes, ‘Wish You Were Here’ is actually enough.”
Sadie Stein on the postcard in the age of e-mail and social media.


“Maybe, sometimes, ‘Wish You Were Here’ is actually enough.”

Sadie Stein on the postcard in the age of e-mail and social media.


Romanticisation of Mental Illness, Kelsey Weaver

(Source: digbicks, via grandparogers)