strange murmurings.

I am Ella and I am not finished here.

(She/Her pronouns)


Mother, I have been devastated all my life. I never said anything.
That’s why I wear a parachute. Why I tiptoed from my bedroom
to yours, and lay my head on the beige carpet for fear of worse.
Were there sirens? There were. Were there familiar songs? Yes.
I am afraid of the beds I have been in. In the morning there was
the heel of your boot sharper than before. Mother, what do I do
with your mail? Do you want to keep this snake in the basement?
What about the kitten? Do you want all these photographs of other
people’s children? The temperature in the lizard’s cage is dropping.
Let’s be realistic. If I open the windows the birds will come in and
eat out the eyes. Mother, I am bereft. Mother, I wear your necklace
and nothing else. Mother, I never. Nevermind. Let’s be fatalistic.
The neighbors know I’m down here. I can hear them watching.
Mother, after they take your eyes I will sew the lids myself.

- Leigh Stein, “Marooned”

(Source: sassafras-ash)



instead of
fading flowers
i’d much rather
give you
my words of
and frailty.
these come from
my heart.
no flower
grows where
words spring forth
so wonderfully.


The allegory of a physical mountain for the spiritual one that stands between each soul and its goal is an easy and natural one to make. Like those in the valley behind us, most people stand in sight of the spiritual mountains all their lives and never enter them, being content to listen to others who have been there and thus avoid the hardships. Some travel into the mountains accompanied by experienced guides who know the best and least dangerous routes by which they arrive at their destination. Still others, inexperienced and untrusting, attempt to make their own routes. Few of these are successful, but occasionally some, by sheer will and luck and grace, do make it. Once there they become more aware than any of the others that there’s no single or fixed number of routes. There are as many routes as individual souls.

- Robert Pirsig - from Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
Mother Falcon - Marigold
  • Marigold

  • by Mother Falcon
  • 58 plays


in the crowd of the sad, in the crowd of the mad, we are the only smiling faces


And I have stepped into your dream at night,
A stranger there, my body steeped in moonlight.
I watched you tremble, washed in all that silver.

Love, the stars have fallen into the garden
And turned to frost. They have opened like a hand.
It is the color that breaks out of the bedsheets.

- Thomas James, from “Tom O’Bedlam Among the Sunflowers,” Letters to a Stranger (Graywolf Press, 2008)

(Source: a-pair-of-ragged-claws)


I didn’t say I liked it. I said it fascinated me. There is a great difference.

- Oscar Wilde, adapted from The Picture of Dorian Gray (via outlinedinoceans)

(Source: lifeinpoetry)