Scarlet Pantomime

2

Many Great Returns

Say something dangerous like a knife to my throat
Sometimes I rage like ocean tides
Things change but remain the same and this gravitational pull which begs me to bash my head against the side of the window pane is so inconceivably sweet I almost want to bleed like ink across the aching pages in a young girls diary
I am one hundred muddled years drudging through lessons in Greek aphrodisiac hoarders bludgeon sleek machines gunning through traffic stops international borders racing like horses across the finish line frothing foaming seas are galloping and I can’t stop the weather from changing but I can bear the rain that pounds against my skin I can learn to love the miserable soak the chill the snow the sun burning through closed eyelids
even death can be sweet

http://mashanda.tumblr.com/post/78610455819/jennstarkid-hate-im-so-afraid-of-marriage

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mashanda:

jennstarkid:

hate:

i’m so afraid of marriage like what if you marry someone and like have kids with them and then they decide they don’t love you anymore or something idk man but that shit is scary

This is more horrifying when you realize this happens every day in real life

The…

Reblogged 1 month ago from mashanda by drcharlesobgynot
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"Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don’t have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough."

Stephen King (via sirenmouth)

#truth

(Source: viviwithcurls)

Reblogged 2 months ago from sirenmouth by drcharlesobgynot
216

(Source: twobabiessittinginatree)

Reblogged 2 months ago from sirenmouth by drcharlesobgynot
3

Jessica
I love the veins in your eyelids
Tangled purple roses
Blooming in your pupils like Saturday at Rockefeller
Your eyes are imprisoned
Let me corrupt the bars that hold you captive in a mind that begs to falter
Your lips are dry tinder
Ready to captivate audiences with your startled sighs and weepy prisms
Linger over suck marks and caress swollen navels with a tongue that knows nothing of obedience
I feel trapped by your devotion
Yet linger, moved by the hopelessness in your eyes

1

My Protestant Wife

These deep seated themes
Russian roulette; sleep between my teeth
Momentary lapses; insane grief
I wonders how she’ll react if I cum inside her?
Sticky sweet
I’m made of poison taste me and
You’ll see
Misguided apprehension
Lately you’ve made your way into my words and molded them to your sharp chin, copper eyes
Is there anything you won’t do?
It’s okay until the iodine bloodied them
I can smell your cum when it spills from my quiet caves
I want to bathe in your salt in your coal I want to breakfast on your navel rub my cheek against your brow
I am such a selfish whore

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"Write her a letter, send her a flower, love only gets old if you let it."

William Chapman (via asdfghjkllove)

(Source: williamchapmanwritings)

Reblogged 2 months ago from theporcelainlake by drcharlesobgynot

New York 1985

I’ll do my time, Nadine, I’ll do my time
All the sweat soaked sheets
Nights of regret under blankets of pale fog in a city that never sleeps
Newscaster reflected in your eyes Two women in one
A flickering ghost
A vulgar nymph who doesn’t want me, doesn’t even know I exist
But those creamy wrists and her mountain of sin draw me in
Draw me in
Evocative
I look back at the broken lights from the skull of a copper lady
Twisted, tarnished metal
I imagine you, bathed in cigarette smoke, in a hotel bar conning the next John
The back of a taxi, smoking a cigar
Tip of your tongue protruding as you dig incessantly for one fucking nickel one quarter who’s got some change? I need to make a call
New York still breathes without me
Still races ahead as though I never traced my fingers along the scars of her carved name in a cherry tree
Manhattan skyline teeth
Back home in California the sun bleaches the eyes. Gets into your head until everything is white.
I’m breaking apart.
One piece at a time.
I want to go back to New York
1985

You Used To Write

Words carry stones
The meek and meeting mind
He is a monster the son of man nineteen thirty three
How do you save what you’ve come to love?
You wrestle barbed wire
Lick honey from a thorn
I am still in Paris, my love
Walking cobblestoned streets
Dreaming of American alleys and condominium fleets
Mon Dieu, Jimmy. What a life you’ve lived.
He had a lean chin and a presidents mouth. Solid. I loved his flesh right down to the bone.
Greener eyes then I knew what to do with.
I told him how my lover was exiled to France.
He doesn’t beg. He doesn’t reach.
I plucked strands of my hair plastered to his balls. One by one. The scent of his skin on my sex.
Seven thirty
I cursed you then. I have become the memory.

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nymphoninjas:

"I’d always envisioned myself as a giver

But as I reflect I’ve left something to be desired

Not that my heart

Hasn’t ever delivered

But that it’s never felt

This inspired

To have direction to feel complete

To embrace affection to end all the woe is me

But mainly to harbor the love that I have to give”

-Harbor by Touché Amoré

Reblogged 5 months ago from nymphoninjas by drcharlesobgynot
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