She ran off into the night with moonlight on her skin

and stars in her hair

she smiled as the crickets greeted her

with chirps

and waved as the owls watched her pass.

she came to a stream

and listened to the song of water

passing through the rocks.

she saw the moon reflecting off

it’s surface

and the stars wrinkled with

the ripples

she fell asleep beside that stream

knowing she was


― Moonlight and Stars by Layla (via lume-fodobrah)

(Source: lilmissconstrude)

600 notes
I wonder
whose arms would I run and fall into
if I were drunk
in a room with everyone
I have ever loved.
― (via flower-fairies)

(Source: pastell-lips)

365,942 notes
do you?

in the dark of night
surrounded by past
ghosts, does your mind

cry out in an all consuming
need to black out?
and does your hand
search the sheets

for a sweet, soft flesh
that is not your own?
only to remember
that i am gone.
and you are gone.
does your stomach 

churn, making you
nauseas, clenching
the knots instead of
clenching my skin;
the way you used to
leave love marks on
my lower back, marking
me as your own.
do you wake in a
sweat, gasping in air,
choking on memories
that won’t leave your dreams.

do you?
or is this just me?

(Source: casuarius)

4 notes

i remember how you stared at me
as you were about to exit my car,

silently asking permission to kiss me;
your lips were so soft and your hand
stayed stagnant on my thigh, as though
if you moved it then you would wake
up and it would all have been a dream.

i remember that you used too much
tongue, but i did not care as i gently
massaged it back into your mouth 
and only took how much i wanted.
i always speak of how i kept my hands
in my lap, tightly folded away from you,
away from letting you into my heart -

if i could remember differently, i would
remember my hands gently tracing your
jaw, feeling the stubble which i told you
to please never shave. and i would have
savoured your last touch by encouraging
you to move your stagnant hand over my
guarded heart, feeling it quicken for you.

(Source: casuarius)

5 notes
with lies.

i close my hand around the words you wrote
so delicately onto the paper, and now so
rough i crumple them until they dissolved into
cursive that resembles a dr.s scrawl.
your words so beautiful hold a charm in which
i am not yet immune and now i bleed them
into my hand so that i may not look upon
them but only feel them in my palm so
i can know the heat they would cause; a burning
heat but not filled with lust: with lies.

(Source: casuarius)

1 note

How does it feel to be loved?
To have him beckon you over to the couch,
Wrap his arms around you and pull you close to his chest,
Gently play with your hair, and whisper sonnets into your left ear?

How does it feel to be missed?
To have him call you at dawn,
And tell you that he couldn’t sleep until he heard your voice,
Couldn’t close his eyes and dream without you beside him?

How does it feel to be wanted?
To have him lace his fingers through yours,
Pepper your forehead with soft-lipped kisses,
And insist you spend the night intertwined in his sheets?

I wish I could say he had shown me:
How it feels to be loved;
And missed;
And wanted, above every other girl he knew.

But, he is a dream – and I am nothing more than a nightmare,
A bad memory that he shakes from his head,
Each time it appears in the back of his mind,
An unwanted text message from a past lover he never cared for.

― L.G. (via introv-erted)
964 notes
night’s mind.

i forbade you from circling
my day dreaming head.
so now you cheat,
taking over my
night’s mind.

(Source: casuarius)

0 notes
I hope she kisses you with
the entire universe in her mouth
so that you wake up with
stars on your lips
and a smile that
drips constellations.
― Y.Z (via fuckyeahtxtposts)

(Source: rustyvoices)

78,057 notes
kitty jammies.

sometimes when i am feeling blue
(if i am wearing my jammies)
i look down at my kitty covered shorts
and smile because i remember
that there are cats in the world,
and as long as cats exist
nothing could really be that bad.

(Source: casuarius)

2 notes
always warm


In January I wake up and see
ten thousand birds glittering black against the ugly cauliflower sky.
I used to dream about tying ropes around their bodies
and being carried away—to Florida, Mexico, 
and all the other warm places I’d read about in books. 

When you’re born in winter like I am, you learn
how to force spring flowers to grow from your nail beds.
You learn to wave them at people like an apology.
You are a homeless wind trying to touch everything
and anything you can get your city-blue fingers on, but
nobody loves the cold.
On mornings like these
I want to pull the sun from the sky and wear it
around my neck like an amulet to keep myself warm, but
at nighttime I am still only a vague star, clutching no constellation,
disappearing cleanly in the haze of city life.

There are days when my mouth is never wet.
On days like this every cup of yellow tea tastes 
like the cough drops my father used to give me when I got sick,
and every ice-covered sidewalk gives me nightmares
from when I saw my sister sprawled, purple and bleeding,
screaming about a broken wrist. Janus is the Roman God of the doorway,
and like him I have never
been able to cross a threshold without checking over my shoulder
every step. On Sundays I walk empty cobblestone streets,
listen to men of God give sermons in Dutch,
and feel the bells quiver like rattle snakes
stretched through my bones. 

The truth is: recovery is an ever-evolving process.
Last night I clipped each daisy from my cuticles and pinned them
upside down on the wall by the end of their tender stems:
I am done growing flowers for other people.
My shoulders may never be the kind of hard-packed earth
from which daffodils sprout like beginnings,
but I know my arms are hard-wood
tree branch limbs,
still standing when all the leaves are gone,
where the birds sit
when they need to rest on their long migration south.
I am not a bitter northern wind—
I am a fire glowing in a little brick house, I am homemade
kitchen soup on someone’s spoon, I am my mother’s favorite mug
she always uses for hot chocolate in the evenings,
and I was born on the one day in January that is still
always warm.

16 notes

i count the moments in which you cross my mind.
actually i lied.
i don’t.
because you don’t cross my mind.
except for just then.
so i guess the count it at one.


(Source: casuarius)

1 note

fragile fingertips 
trace calloused palms;
strength seeps through
the warmth of skin.

crackled lips
savour a soft mouth,
and whispered love
heals the burning sores.

(Source: casuarius)

3 notes
(i am a faerie) dreams.

some days i dream
of cherry blossom trees
and crystal clear streams
in which to walk along
as i talk to the deer
who give me directions
to the waterfall in which
the faeries have made
into a castle.

i dream that i shall
wash my hair beneath the
fresh water that glistens
like diamonds and fall
asleep in a canopy of
trees that place me in
their care and come morning
i shall wake but a fraction
of my size.

"hello world; i am a faerie",
i will sing, as my deer
friends smile at me
from their fields of
wild flowers that create
the most heavenly
scent in this majestic world
which sinks so gently
into my skin.

(Source: casuarius)

1 note

I don’t want to be the perfectionist.
I don’t want the straight lines and dotted i’s.
I want the chaos and the waves.
The ocean and the storm.

I want a boy to draw the night sky
on my thighs with his fingers,
the paint running down my legs
and forming puddles of stars when I walk
I want to choke on poetry
like hungry moths fighting for light inside my throat.

I want this life to contain me, restrain me
only for moment like a jug of water until I spill,
flooding every surface and seeping into skin.
Becoming the rain, becoming chemistry.
Soaking pages and telling the history of stars
of how they became the ocean.

Kelsey Danielle, “Storytelling” (via pigmenting)
482 notes