1. to darken or obscure with clouds.
2. to make confused.

thorns in your hands.

The first rose you ever brought me
was half-dead, exactly how I feel
when you leave me in bed
for just a moment after sex
to fetch some ice water
and a towel for the sweat.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a
good thing, when my limbs
decide they are stationary
and when my mind has to keep
clawing its way back into
my skull after I’ve finished
clawing the velvet of your back.

The last rose you brought me -
half-red and half-yellow, like my skin -
still faces the window for light, even
with its petals paralyzed and
stiff; I would give anything
for you to come and make me
feel just like that flower:


(Source: mindofmedeusa)

I saw you as soon as you
strolled around the corner;
it was like seeing the moon
during the daytime -
you assume that it is
not supposed to be there,
but you admire it anyway.

And admire you, I did,
and still do,
though it is now
with a lack of shyness
and wildfires burning
behind black eyes.

I would compare you
to the sun,
but you have the decency
of sparing my vision
when I lose myself
staring at you.

I saw you in my coffee cup dreams
and now my heart is racing, burning from
this sensation of heartache at the pit of my gut,
an acid reflex of my bittersweet nightmares.

7-weeks, We Could Have Been Cream & Sugar (via wnq-writers)

(via wnq-writers)

I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

— Pablo Neruda, From Sonnet XVII, From 100 Love Sonnets
(Translated by Stephen Tapscott)

(Source: liquidnight)


- - medeusa xx


- - medeusa xx



the thing about writing.

It’s comical to me that
after mentally sorting through
piles and piles of pointless
garbage and rotting theories,
you touch pen to paper
and realize that perhaps
you weren’t actually on the
brink of a psychotic meltdown,
but in order for sense to be made,
it was necessary to see
the words and the physical form
of your thoughts -

so that, 
for once,
the two of you would be
speaking the same language.

It is no coincidence that, in questioning times,My burning eyes glance up from the collapsing horizon,And catch a glimpse of your passing beauty.

It is no coincidence that, in questioning times,
My burning eyes glance up from the collapsing horizon,
And catch a glimpse of your passing beauty.

there is a reason
that, when we cry, small droplets
of ocean leave us

I’ll try anything once, twice if I like it, three times to make sure.

Mae West (via feellng)