Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I’m drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.

To hell with the saints, with the martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.

I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I’m nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it.

― Kim Addonizio, For Desire (via hellanne)
I am suffering and it’s no one’s fault. My relationship with myself has gone off track.
― Evelyne Lanzmann, from a letter to Jean-Paul Sartre  (via adieufranz)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)


one day i will fall in love with someone and terrorize them with all the beautiful songs and poems about love i’ve gathered but had no one to dedicate them to

J’ai cru que t’écrire apaiserait ma peine. Au fond, ces lettres n’avaient qu’un but : faire un bilan, celui de notre vie. Dire à ceux qui les liront qui tu étais, qui nous étions. Mettre à jour mes souvenirs, te dire combien, au bout du compte, j’ai été heureux avec toi, grâce à toi.
― Pierre Bergé, Lettres à Yves (via laceremoniedesadieux)
Then one day, suddenly, it ends, it changes, I don’t understand, it dies, or it’s me, I don’t understand that either. I ask the words that remain— sleeping, waking, morning, evening. They have nothing to say.
― Samuel Beckett, Endgame (via hellanne)
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