a guide to exploring abandoned farms
  • essential supplies include: plenty of food and water, a change of socks, a hat, rope, bandaids, a knife, gloves, an acorn in your pocket, and an offering
  • there are always odd noises on the farm. half of them come from the animals
  • try to forget what the lake looks like between the hours of three and four AM
  • never ever find yourself alone in the milking shed in the south end of the farm. time passes differently there
  • if you happen to hurt yourself in your exploration, make sure you do not bleed onto the dirt
  • bring plenty of water, you do not want to drink from there
  • the cows will watch you, this is normal
  • close every gate you open, even if the fields are empty. don’t ever leave one open behind you, just trust me
  • beware unstable rocks, the cracks tend to be filled with insect nests
  • bring a weapon with you, but no guns
  • if you see someone else while exploring, never tell them your name. you can never be sure if they are real or not, and further out you go, the less real they will seem. the patupaiarehe have evolved in cruel and unusual ways
  • do not go inside the empty share-milkers cottages, whatever you do, do not go inside. something else lives there now
  • a tree with the undersides of its leaves showing mean that a storm is coming. a tree with no leaves means the storm has already come
  • sometimes the hills look like they’re moving. be aware of this, because some things don’t like to be disturbed
  • do not sleep under the full moon, in fact, just don’t sleep on the farm
  • finding skulls is normal, only become worried when you start finding ribs
  • if you find yourself lost in a forest, continue walking in a straight line until you are free again. the trees may make it look as though you are going in circles, but i promise you’re not. ignore the soft music you can hear
  • your phone won’t work out here
  • the ghosts from the land wars won’t harm you, but be sure to show them respect
  • don’t take anything from the farm with you when you leave. just be grateful you have made it out alive

Zeus smirks, high and mighty and cutting, and asks, what would you give?

And Atlas - arms trembling and shoulders shaking - thinks: what haven’t I given already?

—  In the end sacrifice means nothing
dreamy aesthetics

- flickering neon motel signs that always seem to be missing a really significant letter rendering the glowing word or phrase meaningless

- carnivals that move from town to town; the air hot and ripe with secrets and the sugar-icing scent of cotton candy

- those nights when the wind sounds like the breath of the beautiful stranger sleeping next to you

- crop circles and fields of singed grass where local residents claim alien ships land on the darker eves of the year

- the back alleys of the dingiest night club on the block that look like places where serial killers claim their victims or superheroes swoop to the rescue or cults practice witchcraft

- those nineties themed diners with rollerblading waiters, jukeboxes and cold fries but bucketlist worthy milkshakes

- sitting atop a rooftop you skilfully climbed up but with a terrifying prospect of getting down, pointing to every star that never granted you wishes running your hands through your best friend’s hair and the air feels like warm milk in the throat

- listening to a stream gurgling and gargling rocks in a forest so green it’s like sitting in the heart of an emerald

- binge watching the X-Files in your pajamas there’s chocolate chip ice cream and your two dogs are cuddled up against you, one on your lap and the other curled around your ankles

- greenhouses that swim with sunlight all these exotic flowers that you can’t name aquamarine and scarlet and canary yellow blooms it smells like dirt and honeysuckle and budding life


and anyway, I never cried. the
whole time, not once. God
moulded some people out of clay,
but I was chiselled out of stone &
stones don’t bleed & they damn
well don’t cry and neither do
boys & somehow I was both
I mean, rock & more rock.
and I’m saying all this to the
carnations by the window & she
she gives me that look. The one
where she’s clearly thinking
about my capital-T Trauma &
says, so? so you never cried
and, so what did you do?
                         & God,
I say, I don’t know.
I say, I wrote about grief
I say, I wrote out grief
I wrote: grief, grief, grief, grief, grief
and didn’t stop until I couldn’t
feel it anymore.
the whole damn year was
violence and anger and grief.
I think December had moved
into my body.

she waits for her husband
she loves him, probably more than anyone else ever did
definitely more than the boy under his fingers
or the girl in his sheets
she waits because she has to
a lonely soul will break alone
a kaleidoscope of broken shards
she paints her nails pink and pretends she doesn’t care

she wears short dresses and shows
dark skin, round cheeks, thick thighs
people call her fat and unhealthy
but she laughs at their ignorance
and puts pearls in her ears
the mirror calls her beautiful
the magazine covers don’t

she wears black combat boots
bright red ilps over clenched teeth
her mother always told her that real girls wear skirts and dresses
instead of skinny jeans and military jackets
real girls keep their heads bowed and their tongues locked
real girls don’t bite and claw their way out
real girls don’t need to

she’s no one’s first choice
not in school, not at home
her arms are heavy from the books she
keeps neatly tugged under her arm
eyes hidden behind thick reading glasses
short skirts and long woollen jumpers
they always take from her
but never give

- modern myths | r.m

what if the sun fell in love with icarus?
(maybe apollo caught sight of the boy,
sun-streaked skin glowing gilded,
feathers fluttering like slain daydreams,
moth-bitten promises half-remembered
& something lovely in his fallibility.)
what if icarus fell in love with the ocean?
(maybe he dreamt of her salt-soaked kisses,
softness dotting his body like constellations.
fingers laced in his hair like a crown
for a broken king. a gentle swan song,
a chilly numbness of unremembrance.)
what if icarus turned away from the sun?
(maybe apollo blazed infernos with the bitter sting
of humiliation. singed off feathers one by one,
thrust him into the frigid embrace of an ocean
that would sooner kill than love back:
a lesson to mortals who dare defy the gods.)
—  DIVINE RETRIBUTION | paperharbors

mythaelogy  asked:

what were your favourite quotes/those with the most impact that you read this year?

 i’m expanding this to talk about poems and collections too because i am That Guy. 





moodboard : durmstrang academy of witchcraft and wizardry,

a northern-eastern european school focused on the dark arts, and alma mater of viktor krum, grindelwald, and others. igor karkaroff, a death eater sympathizer, is its headmaster.

types of new zealand children

  • you were born on the west coast. black sand and thrashing waters, the kind of dangerous parents warn their children about. you could swim before you could walk, and you can feel the ocean in your bones, a soft ache that will never go away
  • you were born in canterbury. winter is nothing more than a warm embrace to you. your body convulses and shifts endlessly like the land below you, and your whole existence feels on edge. rise and fall
  • you were born in the wetlands. you know rebirth better than any, and yet you still feel trapped. you wake early every morning, and you know just how silent the farm can be. your life is an endless cycle of this knowing and yet you can never do anything but watch
  • you were born in te hiku-o-te-ika. the old gods still live inside of the earth, and you are surrounded by them. tane mahuta stands tall and so do you. breathe in, you exist at the top of aotearoa
  • you were born in the alpine mountains of otago. land of the red earth, isolated village, you are difficult to get to and difficult to understand. you are calmest when the wind is thin and the snow cold. poor child, you will never be able to comprehend your vastness
  • you were born in the cities. there is a disconnect in your identity, and no matter how many times you shift around, you will never feel at home until the hum of traffic has settled under your skin
  • you were born in the king country. war torn kid with too much blood on your knees, in your mouth, on your arms. there’s a rage inside of you that will never go away, but nor will the strength that comes from the bones of the kings in the soil below you
  • you were born in marlborough. the dry season has lasted several years, and you just want to know when everything will feel okay again. soon, i promise you
  • you were born on the volcanic plateau. you will never know where you belong, but that’s okay. nowhere will be able to contain you but the open vastness of the desert road. you are all too much, from lake taupo to mount ruapehu, you are unknowable
  • you were born in the bay of plenty. you have never known hunger, but you know suffering. you are the softest of children, raised on summer warmth and placid rivers that you know better than the back of your hand
  • you were born in heretaunga. you survived a place that wanted you dead. through the floods, the earthquakes, and the droughts, you still stand. you are so much stronger than you know

this is just like the last time. with the red
and our bodies like roadkill laid out on the tiles — ?

I whispered “don’t be afraid” into your spine
to the smell of copper, bleach and lavender.

you flickered like the naked lightbulb, so
maybe only saints get to tell fear when
                                                           to hide.

                         I’m not that.

Yves Olade, from “Roadkill”, in Flinch!

sun boy, you make falling like flying. the heat is too much to stand – all the sweat in all the secret places, all the honey-stickiness of summer thunder. i have been warned against too much sun, but i have been locked in the darkest chambers for so long and i have only missed you more. let me scorch my hands on you, slip the burn onto my tongue so the rest of me can glow. i have been waiting for june, but june never comes to me, so i will take myself to him.

my angel, my winged fantasy, take care. i have watched you from a cruel distance and i have only glowed brighter, that i might shed my light on you. do not grow tired of the sky and do not grow careless of it, either. i lie in wait, as all good things do.

my love, i shed my wings and spiral. close enough to touch and yet divided. as in all great romances, i have had my high and now i will have my low. heat is replaced by the bottom of the sea: cool, calm, and irreversible. you are always in the back of my mind, as i see fractions of you soak through the blue blanket of waves above my head – you are everywhere, in everything. love is in all things as well – in me, in my soaring hope and my quiet resolution.

i will remember you. i will make you matter, i will make you of consequence. i will make you immortal.

- the sun and his angel // abby // prompt for anon