A rooster
These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold--though your faith is far more precious than mere gold. So when your faith remains strong through many trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when the Messiah is revealed to the whole world.

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I’ve always admired my lipstick stains
And their way of leaving unexpected marks,
Pick a color, any color
And kiss it onto a spot
Simple and easy;
It’s somewhat a territorial mark,
A sign that says ‘I’ve been here’
Maybe that explains why
I want to have my lipstick stains
Cover your heart

Simran Roy, Lipstick Stains On Your Heart

(for its-that-creepy-asian-again)

This is the history of love.
This is both of us in the Sahara and I
get the last sip of water,
kiss damp lips on to you for you
to survive by. This is stale movie popcorn
because we spent too long learning
each other’s twists under the light of
a plotline flashing away in front of us.
This is choosing to see other people.
This is seeing you in other people.
This is a night holy, a night true,
tears and all, broken radiator and
cheap wine and hands to hold but
none to keep you here.
This is the history of fuck you for
making me soft, for making me maleable,
for doing more than just testing my waters,
fuck you for making the oceans of me
feel so puddle at the sight of you.
This is the history of my mattress,
that has seen more mistakes
than I am sober enough to remember.
This is another man’s neck
and your name whispered against it.
This is not forgetting. This is trying to.
This is not enough ways to give up
as I thought there would be, only the one
with your caller ID and a hangover.
This is the history of love.
This is a rare thing, a history
written by one who did not win.
Written by the Winners | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)

It is being written in kitchens. It is being written in the limp light of cheap 40-watt bulbs, while beside you, slouched in a chair or marooned on the couch your lover or your mother sleeps. There is the smell of liver and onions in the air. Waves of garlic descend upon the paper as you write. It is being written beside cat boxes or with old black-painted typewriters whose keys continually jam. It is being written while hamsters breed, where cockatoos work their beaks against the cage. It is morning in Alsace, Louisiana. Two poets arrive in an old black car which diesels after the motor is shut off. They step out off towards the lawn and there are greeted by a third, who is very excited, and wants to show them something. It is being written in tiny cabins up near the Arctic Circle where were it not for the ambivalent howling of the wind one could conceivably hear and be frightened by and take for one’s subject the ambivalent howling of the wolves. It is being written by men who no longer love their wives, who hate their fathers-in-law, by women who cheat on their husbands, by thousands of people old and young who feel molested by life, or cheated by the past, or crippled in the present. It is being written by young girls whose feet have ungainly long second toes, by young men with brains instead of muscles, and whose faces are moon scapes of acne, by young men whose parents cannot even read the labels off soup cans. People walk up and down the aisles of groceries and eye the soup cans. Housewives in put-up hair, in beige, shapeless and wrinkled raincoats shift in their choices between this kind of cracker or that bread, their eyes dull and glassy or ferocious with unacknowledged passion. A boy is stooping to line up bottles of fabric softener, self-conscious and hot around the collar. And he is a poet. Women stand pounding the check-out registers, from soup to nuts, free dog bones, mastocelli noodles, and all with migraines. And they are poets. The manager sits in his tiny booth and counts receipts, now and then staring out over the vast panorama which is this voiceless, heartless, mute and lonely humanity, robot-like as they, passing, push their wire carts. Someday, he will write the great poem of their souls.

It is everywhere this poetry. It is the sacred name of every place, it is the nut and bolt, the bleeder valve, the kite string of reality. It is the deep end of the pool, whose water shivers, whose bottom backs off into blue. It is the unsung, the unsaid, it is the uttered and the barely felt, the blue bird, the red. It is the ache at midnight, the slap in the face, the letter, neglected for so long, we were meaning to write to that which within us has waited, aching for so long.

Greg Kuzma, from an introductory note in What Poetry Is All About. This isn’t even the introduction. This is from a note preceding the introduction and the subsequent updated introductions, one for each edition of the text, up until an introduction to the fifth edition, which is the one I found in a treasure trove of secondhand books in Philadelphia. It was near closing, clean on the other side of Philly from where I was staying, and I was travelling out of the city the following morning. And I’m so glad I made the effort to get there. Because I found this. (via jslr)

1. I met a boy that tasted like blueberries during the summer of 2011. He taught me how to kiss and where to put my hands, and I was young, and maybe a little stupid and a tiny bit too trusting, but I felt everything.

2. I met a boy that tasted like cigarettes during the summer of 2012. He taught me how to inhale twice- once for the smoke, and the other for the head rush, and I was young, and maybe a little desperate and a tiny bit too lonely, but I felt everything.

3. I met a boy that tasted like gin during the summer of 2013. He taught me how to paint with watercolour and the art of avoiding a hangover, and I was young, and maybe a little empty and a tiny bit too sad, but I felt everything.

4. I met a boy that tasted like blood during the summer of 2014. He taught me how to kiss and where to put my hands, and how to smoke & paint with watercolour & the art of avoiding a hangover, & I was suddenly old and a lot bit heartbroken, and I couldn’t feel anything at all.

Long term relationship (via u-u-tf)
You should probably know that it took me four days and a trip to the mall to pick out what to wear tonight.
And how I thought that giving you flowers would be a little excessive, so I just came up with ways I could sneak the bill.
I’ve also thought about kissing you at the end of the night, and if I’ll forgot how to regardless of how many times I’ve done it before.
And is it ok that I forgot my own name for a second when I saw you walk through the door? Or that when you reached in for a hug, I had to make sure you couldn’t tell that my hands were shaking?
Probably not. Maybe it’s best to wait if there’s a second date.
Connotativewords | jl | First Date (via connotativewords)

It sucks when someone you have feelings for doesn’t share those feelings; it happens to women all the time, too. We hear “I just want to be friends” and “you’re like one of the guys” and “you’re like a sister to me” just as often. But you’ll never hear a woman complain that guys just don’t appreciate a Nice Girl because we’re taught it’s our own fucking fault when we’re rejected—we aren’t pretty enough or thin enough or sexy enough, we weren’t sexual enough or were too sexual, we put out too much or too little or too soon or not soon enough, we didn’t wear our hair the right way or our skirt the right length, we’re “too tomboyish” or “too butch” or “too feminine”, or we’re “not their type”, or we’re otherwise not good enough in various ways to entice the man to grace us with his affection.

But when we’re not interested in someone, we’re vilified. We’re the bitch that lead them on, the bitch who let them buy us dinner but didn’t want to date them, the bitch who doesn’t appreciate a nice guy, the bitch they were nice to and then got nothing in return from.

And, frankly, fuck those people. Showing interest in me, being friendly with me, getting close to me, or eating a meal with me (even if they paid for it) doesn’t obligate me to open my heart or my legs. And anyone who doesn’t appreciate my friendship sure as hell doesn’t deserve my love or my pussy.

There are so few people given us to love. I want to tell my daughters this, that each time you fall in love it is important, even at nineteen. Especially at nineteen. And if you can, at nineteen, count the people you love on one hand, you will not, at forty, have run out of fingers on the other. There are so few people given us to love and they all stick.
Anne Enright (via creatingaquietmind)
Do you ever just look at someone and become overwhelmed with this insuppressible longing for them? You crave this deep level of intimacy that you know would take years to develop. You know you can’t have them and you’re not even sure exactly why you want them, but you do – to the point where you can feel your bones aching at the thought of someone else holding them. It’s maddening, almost. But I would love to know that I’m not the only one.
Connotativewords | jl | Justified (via connotativewords)



Someone’s probably in love with you right now, even though you think you’re boring and stupid and smell bad most of the time, someone probably saw you last week and wiped their sweaty hands on the insides of their pockets and thought about your body under your clothing and about how you would look asleep in their bed


How To Date:



Step 1- Buy her pizza.

Step 2- Make her cum.

Step 3 - watch your weak ass relationship fall apart after six weeks when you realize you both have the personalities of an unwashed cheese grater

The truth is, I gave my heart away a long time ago, all of it, and I never really got it back.
Sweet Home Alabama (via tea-storm)
Listen to me. I’m shy. I’m not stupid. I can’t meet people’s eyes. I don’t know if you understand what that’s like. There’s a whole world going on around me, I’m aware of that. It’s not because I don’t want to look at you. It’s that I don’t want to be seen.
Jonathan Lethem, You Don’t Love Me Yet (via splitterherzen)