About Me
Isha. 22, slash f, from salt lake city, earthling, aspiring artist, writer, and naturalist. Writing all sorts of mismatched stories, poetry, letters, and prose of various subjects. Writing is my own original work on this blog page unless otherwise credited.
(I do not take credit for all pictures, photos or artwork posted.)
I’m too weak to write she said, as the fiber glass clicking underneath sin filled fingers taunted her with every new sound, where her skin too cold to feel remorse, eyes too heavy to see the damage, and every strange itch came along with discomfort, feeling every trickling hair on her scorched body, like water left on bare skin to drip away with paralytic memories, better left unsaid.
(Source: zenhumanism, via child-of-the-universe)
I’m growing tired of being forgotten about
Word
(Source: everythingitouchturnsintostone)
I would miss the raw grip of your tattooed hands seeding into my backbone, where flesh and blood and bones are just in the way of everything, and the curve of your plump lips are pressing all of your wonders into mine, asking for more of what had brought us here, where singularity pumps its tiny wormholes in and out of our lungs, making us come alive again, and again. The steady pace of your breath matching beats of my own magnetic pulse, when I try and trace all the lines of your mouth, I can’t hold onto the perceived longing hard enough, I drop memories like raindrops that never got to water the grounds of the sarenghetti, Now I see the purple stained clouds coming in to kiss the midnight ground goodnight, and I’m afraid for the first time since I started speaking to the trees. The lingering scent of blue clay folds in on top of me, like loud music, and the texture of skin on your neck reminds me of the back of a sand dollar I held as a child, pouring all my silly wishes into, and for a second, I swear I can see you looking at me in the way one might look at something sacred, in one instant our foreheads pushed together, interlocking, opening like portals; sharing and exchanging all that we meant to speak but never could.
A family shrouded by blame, by guilt.
A child is scolded for her pale skin and the wrong colored truths that fall from her weeping face. A twitch of the eye, a glance off the dusty mirror, a woman makes a familiar face, applying blood red lipstick, and stifling back all the dandelion memories of her own misplaced childhood.
A cemetery she was once afraid to walk upon with fragile feet, now offers a sense of solace in her body, rooting her into a gentle breathing of the earth.
A truly gorgeous shot of Nayeli spinning things up at the Sacred Circularities retreat in Bali. She lives in San Francisco, California, USA. Photo by Cadencia Photography. A Hooping.org Photo of the Day.
(via child-of-the-universe)
Louis CK
Good lord I’ve never related to anything more in my life.
(via cobie-smulders)
(Source: mywholethesis, via trontrozblog)
