roramitchell

[roramitchell]

How could I not want you - your beauty still and spare as a secret glacial lake. I, who still feel the dirt's choke from another lifetime, heard you telling me to drink. These useless hands that let both dust and water slip between them rise again and again to lips dried brown as figs.

[roramitchell]

I'm embittered beyond measure that Neil Gaiman is, after all, just another predatory, narcissistic boomer. How I used to adore him - and how diminished he has become in my eyes.

[roramitchell]

[roramitchell]

Tell me you never grew up in Edmonton without telling me you never grew up in Edmonton.

he touched me

like i was winter—

beautiful,

but never meant to stay.

— sasha★.

[roramitchell]

My latest cartoon for New Scientist

[roramitchell]

— jessica therese, from ‘a different kind of heartbreak’ (via letsbelonelytogetherr)

[roramitchell]

Joy Sullivan, “Want", Instructions for Traveling West

[roramitchell]

Softness, it seems, is an act of defiance - a quiet revolution.

W.B. Night

[roramitchell]

Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky, from a letter featured in The Life & Letters of Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

[roramitchell]

Coloured prefaces from The Apothecary Diaries

[roramitchell]

[roramitchell]

You heard the man. KEEP ME WELL-FED.

can anyone find me that mesopotamian clay tablet telling you to marry a party girl because she'll bring you joy

[roramitchell]

i // am statuesque. no colour & grotesque. i am art, i tell myself. i am worthy to be looked at, especially this way. this is love. this is love. this is —

— Lahraeb Munir, from "mother medusa," published in Pigeon Publishing

[roramitchell]

Separation, W. S. Merwin

[roramitchell]

This frog is also impressed with this one's finesse and dedication.

via indiarosecrawford

Frog Paints a Water Lily Pond 🪷🎨🐸

𝑓ₒᵣ ⲕᵢ𝑛𝑔 ₐ𝑛𝑑 𝑐ₒ𝑡𝑡ₐ𝑔ₑ

[roramitchell]

With the touch you casually welcomed I pluck stray autumn treasure reclaimed by March winds and half-hidden in hair still dark as tents of Kedar Pine boughs by my window sway in murmuring canticles you were too wise to sing While I like a blinded dove or blossoming henna still seek out the warmth of your false spring

[roramitchell]

Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home