Jay Wright By Dennis Tejero For Harper’s Bazaar Kazakhstan September 2018

Noah: *is here*

Me: (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧

Adam away at college studying at his apartment with friends or something when his punk rock boyfriend shows up in biker boots (I imagine Ronan getting a motorcycle while Adam’s away with the bmw) and a leather jacket with a tattoo peaking out around his neck. and he plops down with the group like “‘sup nerds” and they get chatting and someone asks him where he goes to school and he’s like, “no, I’m a farmer” and they all think it’s a joke and he lets them think it’s a joke until the night wears on and at some point he’s showing everyone photos of the new baby goats he adopted and there’s a close up of the scary-looking ugly one that Opal picked out (she gave it a mohawk and named it Kerah) and it turns out he brought Adam a jar of preserves because he grew too many strawberries and later he shows off the bitchin’ scar he got on his elbow while building a new chicken coop. and everyone’s just like where the hell did you find this guy

Me: dangling hand off bed Demon: *grabs it* Me: what are we

Button author Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib’s poem featured on the sign of a BBQ restaurant in Toronto. Get your copy of Hanif’s incredible book here.

part 2 of that popular rich kids moodboard

I haven’t really seen any fancasts of David Wymack, but when I was reading TFC for the second time I saw he had “tribal tattoos” and my brain just immediately went to Dwayne Johnson. i don’t really know why, but it made for an entertaining read-through. Like picture Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson wrangling a five foot tall Andrew Minyard. Picture Dwayne Johnson, The Scorpion King, having an aneurysm every time Neil “Human Disaster” Josten calls out the Moriyamas. Picture him listening to Kevin whine about how much the Foxes suck for hours on end. Dwayne Johnson letting Allison paint his nails on a long, boring bus ride. It’d be like that movie The Pacifier, except like fifty times worse. 

aristotle & dante quotes: 7/?

I wanted to tell them that I never knew that people like Dante existed in the world, people who looked at the stars, and knew the mysteries of water, and knew enough to know that birds belonged to the heavens and weren’t meant to be shot down from their graceful flights by mean and stupid boys.

Cracks

Thundercracks; chasms; those in coffee cups; crevasses; crispy crackling; cracks full of bones in the mountains to the far North and the snow has mercifully covered them but in Summer you can still see the traces; those in badly-constructed alibis; those on which you must not step; those that start small and widen until they have split a whole country in two and spilled out all the hidden vaults and subway routes into the chasm; those which stare back; those of doors opened just a smidgen; the varnish-cracked faces of china shepherdesses in the spider attic; the crack that cracks a case; that cracks a skull; those in valuable vases; fractured air; those whose fixing is part of the art; cracks that spill forth ants; those that are breaks in reality; whip cracks; bum cracks; those in broken biscuits; the first cracks in a wall that you wish gone.

“Between any two beings there is a unique, uncrossable distance, an unenterable sanctuary. Sometimes it takes the shape of aloneness. Sometimes it takes the shape of love.”

— Jonathan Safran Foer, Here I Am (via weltenwellen)

i. your father speaks of his youth with revelry spills his life across the kitchen table like an overturned drink your mother doesn’t speak any stories of her pre marital life come from your father’s mouth he speaks of how he tamed her saved her from a life of reckless abandon clipped her wings to keep her from flying too close to the sun but Icarus would have just as soon drowned than burned and the silence in your mother’s mouth is a saltwater darkness she does not speak up to defend herself even now, years after their divorce your father’s voice can fill a room your mother still makes space for it when your mother teaches you not to be swallowed, she is already sitting in the belly of a beast she once loved you wonder if she has grown to love the darkness like she once loved the man ii. the day you learn the importance of emergency exits is the day your heartbeat stops sounding familiar it is a stuttering tongue a trembling hand your heart beats like closing doors like your father’s fading footsteps like every plea you learn how to swallow don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t – your father teaches you to be the first one to walk away leave before they realize you are not worth staying for iii. when your mother tells you not to be afraid of falling in love you do not miss the way her hands shake you wonder if they miss the handcuff weight of the ring that used to rest on that finger you wonder if you, too, will fall in love with a padlock man you begin to be wary of boys with birdcage hands they have mouths like oceans and your mother is still wringing seawater from her bones iv. you master the art of slipping away by starting small fix your body clock so you always wake up first plot escape routes like past times force your heart to beat just go, just go, just go, just – practice on the ones you love most that way, nothing can hurt you you cannot break a mangled thing and you don’t know the last time your heart sounded like a heart v. he tells you you eat like a bird you tell him your mother taught you well he laughs, and reaches for your hand you smile, and begin to slip through the cage of his fingers vi. when boys begin searching for hospital room hearts you warn them yours is a broken glass bottle they don’t care, or they don’t hear you they cut themselves on sharp tongues make fingerpaintings with the blood on their hands make it sound so beautiful you almost believe them soon, though, they will wake up with scars and blame you you leave them a bandage in the dark and don’t look back leave before they realize you are not worth scarring for vii. you see every outstretched hand as a palm preparing to drown you so you sink farther underwater and ignore the burning in your chest run your fingers over every name that has left your mouth for the last time and tell yourself you have done the right thing

the heartbreaker poem | bianca phipps (via biancaphipps)