"How odd I can have all this inside me and to you it’s just words."David Foster Wallace, The Pale King (via vartea)
I love borders. August is the border between summer and autumn; it is the most beautiful month I know.
Twilight is the border between day and night, and the shore is the border between sea and land. The border is longing: when both have fallen in love but still haven’t said anything. The border is to be on the way. It is the way that is the most important thing." Tove Jansson (via journalofanobody)
Pretty face, pretty heart.
They overlook the rest because
they think its okay to love me like charity.
My body is not a topic of
or a place they like to put their
My room is dark when they
and I keep my shirt on,
scream “sorry!” when I come.
They never talk about me to their
I’m a secret that they pretend
to wear on their sleeve.
Such a pretty face, such a pretty
so quiet when she cries.
Makes it so easy to leave.
The door closes behind them
at 5 a.m and I check my skin
for signs of life,
for signs that someone has been there, and
I find nothing.
Not even the faintest ache of pain.
The mornings are spent remembering their hands
and imagining them around my throat, my arms, my ankles.
I have learned to let go of what
doesn’t want me.
Their names are quiet in my mouth.
I don’t even use them as excuses
I should probably thank them all
for leaving me so untouched
that bumping into you
felt like getting flattened
by a freight train.
Because, out of all the ghosts
who have come in and out of my bedroom,
you’re the only one who didn’t
leave the bed cold.
You’re the only one
who kept the lights on.
Georges Bataille, The Unfinished System of Nonknowledge
[Bataille was a librarian]
My ‘world’ is parsimonious—a few
combine, like tricks of light, to
sketch the barest outline. But my
void is lavish, breaking
its frame, tempting me always to
turn again, again, for each
glimpse suggests more and more in some
other, farther emptiness.
—Kenneth Waldrop, from “Stone Angels,” (Ibstress Press, 1997)