+ 4847 Notes


US flags mysteriously replaced by white flags on Brooklyn Bridge

Gothamist: The American flags that normally grace the top of New York City’s iconic Brooklyn Bridge were mysteriously replaced with white flags Tuesday morning. 

Police are investigating.

(Photo: Rick Bruner/Gothamist)


Jul 28 @ 8:22 PM
+ 1866 Notes
But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.
Junot Díaz (via petrichour)
Jul 28 @ 12:56 PM
+ 16762 Notes

Morocco. Marrakech. 1998

Jul 28 @ 12:54 PM
+ 470 Notes

You plead not guilty to all charges again.
You forget that most of last year is still rotten in my mouth.
You forget I can still taste the chalk outlines
under my tongue in the mornings.
You forget that the caution tape still hangs across my bed
like a warning for anyone trying to save me.
You forget that crime scenes and home
smell the same to me these days.
Like smoke. Like metal. Like empty.

Your mouth is the burial ground and the battle field.
Most war zones avoid being loved
but these lips remember your bloody kind of sacred.
Your teeth are tombstones with the names unreadable.
Your teeth are tombstones with the dates scratched out.

You morphed my voice into a leaking faucet.
You pushed me into rooms with no way out.
You led me to corners with music boxes
that only played your name.
You strung together cobwebs and
shadows that whispered like you.
Like please and more and yes.
Like kiss me and don’t and again.

There aren’t as many ways to forget someone
as you think there are.
So I set my house on fire
until your footsteps are only smoke and charcoal.
So I almost forget not to stay as it burns.
So I stop picking up the phone.
So I leave town and change my name
and learn not to talk about the mistakes
I fell in love with.
About the monster I fed with my own skin.

Crime Scenes & Left Over Love Affairs | Yasmin & Ramna
Jul 27 @ 4:32 PM
+ 638 Notes
I’m awaiting a lover. I have to be rent and pulled apart and live according to the demons and the imagination in me. I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.
Anaïs Nin, Fire: From “A Journal of Love” The Unexpurgated Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1934-1937”. (via ontheedgeofdarkness)
Jul 27 @ 3:30 PM
+ 8061 Notes

This is why it hurts the way it hurts.

You have too many words in your head. There are too many ways to describe the way you feel. You will never have the luxury of a dull ache.

You must suffer through the intricacy of feeling too much.

Iain S. Thomas, I Wrote This For You (via abluesforbrklyn)
Jul 27 @ 3:30 PM
+ 40 Notes

some days, you define what is beautiful by what makes you smile the longest, and then, before you know it, you are

Jul 26 @ 2:55 PM
+ 38166 Notes


The Sleeping Goddess in The Lost Gardens of Heligan in England.

Jul 26 @ 1:35 PM
+ 214 Notes

The more texts I type out to you and never send, the less I remember about your voice. The less I remember about your voice, the more I realize there are entire things I have yet to say to you. Like how ferris wheels make my whole stomach laugh and my knees ache for ground. Like how Las Vegas is the city my father fell in love the second time, except this time with the queen on the back of a playing card and not the one waiting for him at home. Like how I am dozens of lifetimes away from forgetting but always seconds away from forgiving. Like how I miss you. Like how I don’t. Like I how I lie sometimes.

You are a bowl of cherries in the lap of a schoolboy. You are the reddest juice leaking from between his teeth afterwards. You are the moments he stares at himself in the mirror and mistakes it all for blood. You are the second his mother sees him run by in the hallway and mistake her baby boy for a murderer or the murdered. We are all making guesses we know are wrong. We are all always throwing our lives into cages of hurting, even when they are not built for us. You are the way we never stop. You are the way I never seem to stop.

Tonight, I am tripping on flat surfaces and learning to become faceless. I am watching the corners for shadows other than my own. I am crossing my fingers for a day when erasing your name from the margin of my notebook means I will never be able to scribble it back in again. I am waiting for the day when I can walk past a row of cages and not feel as though these arms need bending into them. Tonight, I pull out my phone and it waters my eyes with its glow in this dark and through the blur I type, “Fuck you. Come back. Fuck you.”

Texts Better Left Unsent | Ramna Safeer
Jul 25 @ 1:04 AM
writings   prose  
+ 2917 Notes


Kumi Yamashitas portraits made with sewing thread and nails

Jul 24 @ 1:48 AM