One Day I Will Forgive You; Until Then There Are Scabs Everywhere That You Have Touched Me.

#art #amazing

#santa #innocence

Looking for Santa in the Chimney

Taken around 1900, this professional photo is entitled “Where Santa Lives.” [ Original: Santa in the Chimney 1900 ]

#beautifulwords

Books are lovely

Librarian, guardian of the words / Bibliotecario, guardian de las palabras (ilustración de Christelle le Guen)

Learning to love yourself is a lesson no one ever taught us. They didn’t tell us how to deal with all the ugly scars that only we can see and how to close our minds to the wicked whispers that make us wish we could shed our skin like a snake, just to feel renewed for a few moments. But inside, trapping on your ribcage, is a heart that loves you so immeasurably. And little by little, heartbeat by heartbeat, it’s asking you to love yourself. They only taught us to be deaf to this plea. You won’t break your own heart now, would you?

venomousvelvet  (via wordsnquotes)

11 Messages Of Female Empowerment From Women In Hollywood

Kindness is a language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.

Mark Twain (via wordsnquotes)

Be kind

I believe that we are put here in human form to decipher the hieroglyphs of love and suffering. And, there is no degree of love or intensity of feeling that does not bring with it the possibility of a crippling hurt. But, it is a duty to take that risk and love without reserve or defense.

Allen Ginsberg (via wordsnquotes)

I know you don’t exactly have a way with words that you couldn’t possibly understand the storm that washed the thoughts from my mind or the distraction of worrying about my cheeks blushing when you lean in to whisper when there is no one within earshot i can’t possibly express on paper that feeling of taking a breath, of the moment in suspension right before you lose your balance that burns within my stomach when I catch you looking at me like that without warning there are so many words in the english language and no matter how many times I describe the warmth of your fingers or the fluster of nothing on my lips i cannot fathom us into poetry i am a poet and you do not make sense to me I cannot describe you as a blooming flower, unfurling to reveal the deepest parts of yourself because you would only laugh at that I cannot describe you in hyperboles or words or metaphors and I am a poet so that makes me want to scream my throat raw and rip apart the paper and words that flood from my fingertips messily that is the only way i can describe us and somewhat feel satisfied in the way I always seek satisfaction in words to write poetry about us is to write in a dead language to write poetry about us is the frustration in watching you expose the bruises on your jaw and cling onto your dignity while you whisper how reckless you’ve been into my shoulder I cannot bandage your pride; I cannot compose you into a sonnet I can write every delicate detail of drowning in a golden clawed bathtub or sitting in sunlight with flowers woven behind my ears but the truth is that each image i conjure isn’t simple enough because we are not an epic simile and your hands are not actually fire burning at my cheeks they are just hands I can write about myself I can condense myself into a neat placement of words but you I cannot describe you even if I spoke in hieroglyphics or braille I was once told that despite how beautiful, language is flawed And I did not believe that one bit Until you looked at me with an expression That I could not find a metaphor for you are strictly tangible, only flesh and crooked front teeth and that is why my heart will soon fracture for I can either write us onto paper or I can silently love you

ochredeity, ”To the boy I love”  (via wordsnquotes)

Words cannot describe.

The glamour of history.