beauty entry

Andrómede, 1886
Rodin

Andrómede. Pronouncing your name has this magic ‘no-sé-qué’, it’s like the tip of my tongue can suddenly make wonders and my lips get together at the middle of the nominal into an eager kiss

I saw Wonder Woman on opening night with my mom and sister, and when Hippolyta sends Diana off on the dock, and tells her that she has been her greatest love, and leaving her is her greatest sorrow… my mom held my hand and gave it a squeeze and honestly??? I was tearing up, because it was such a relatable emotion for us as mother and daughter, at this stage in my life where I’m not a kid anymore. And some movies can’t even manage to pass the Bechdel Test. This is the magic of women making films.

2

I’m still laughing my ass off at Joker’s Unkempt Beauty trope entries because I swear to god I must have ghostwrote this or something

one
i hate myself in the most daring ways. instead of slashing at my wrists or tying reverse necklaces around my neck i fall in love. i let the girl that breathed so much summer into me take it all away. i tell myself that tomorrow is a new day, and that today is the day in which i don’t need to pray. that god and i are just taking a break. anything religious or holy is somehow paused. i let her take the summer out of my body and replace with winter.
two
this winter isn’t snowfall. this winter is biting cold rain that only freezes once it’s hit the ground. this winter isn’t hot chocolate but hot streaks of saline down my left cheek, and it’s hot chested arguments that get me into trouble. i don’t smell christmas trees but instead i smell sap and broken fiberglass.
three
i can’t die.
i know words like they’ve been imprinted onto my tongue and i know just how they stick to cold corpses  just like tongues to wintery light poles. i know that no matter how much i condemn myself into the earth, no matter how quickly i allow my energy to be reinstated into the universe, my words can’t die. i know that someone can smell something and think of me or read something and think of me, tell a joke and think of me or fall in love and think of me. i know someone is going to find the body.
the idea that someone can find me like that terrifies me.
—  a collective of a suicidal realist

white straight girl writing a mlm sex scene:

Jacob looked at Marlon’s entry. So beautiful, so round, so pink. He couldn’t help himself. He tasted it. The skin felt like honey on his tongue. With no hesitance, he licked his finger and entered Marlon’s cave of wonders, much to the other boy’s moaning delight. Jacob couldn’t control himself anymore. He inserted his throbbing member inside Marlon’s entryway to Heaven. Both boys saw stars with each push and pull, the tightness of Marlon’s walls on Jacob’s hard manhood a perfect expression of Love is Love is Love is Love–

me:

dear future wife,

i want you on your best days so i can witness that intoxicating smile of yours but, i also want you on your worst days so i can comfort you and remind you how amazing you are. how blessed i am to have you in my life. i want your tired smile and your drunken self, so i can kiss away that hangover. i want you on nights you can’t sleep so you can wake me up and tell me what’s on your mind, talk my ear off until the sun rises. i want you when you’re laughing at yourself because that is honestly the most beautiful thing ever. i want all of you, forever and always.

love,
your future wife

—  loveisexpired (“dear future wife” page 144 out of 365)
Entry #3

PERSPECTIVE


It’s 3 am and he’s counting the freckles on her cheek. He wonders what life would be without her and her fast mind. Always thinking about a million things at once. Always creating to never destroy. In her mind, he is a convoy of art. He is now constantly creating because he knows that to create art you must consume it and he is constantly around her. She is awake at 3 am feeling his stare but chooses to keep her eyes closed for the fear of the moment ending. It’s as if she can read what’s going on in his head and it’s never ending. She can read the words he never means to say in between his lips, as they part only to drown his sorrow. His only hope is to see her beautiful face tomorrow. But he could care less about her outer appearance as he counts the freckles on her cheeks and the crevice where her lips end and her mouth meets. It’s as if he’s reading her soul instead and can see through every last bit of her. As she awakens he continues to stare for fear of the moment and having to return back to his own canvass of a mind; but if it were her deciding, that’s the only place she’d ever want to be.

-E.M