given love

“we give the love we think we deserve.”

well,

fuck that,

give the love

that you want to be given to you.

life & loss

Life is defined by

loss

or at the very least

by the

absence(s).

Deeply personal and unabashedly confessional, Dirty Socks and Pine Needles deftly stitches the fractals of memory into something resembling a heirloom quilt – torn, ragged, stained and deeply loved.

matthew loney, canadian poet

“When I was a child, I memorized my mother’s hands as she folded clothes.
My favorite smell is clean laundry, because 
it reminds me of my mother and Saturdays spent at the laundry mat watching my clothes tumble
instead of in the living room watching cartoons.
Everything is gonna be all right, she would sing in soap bubbles.”
“my mother,” Dirty Socks and Pine Needles
*photo courtesy Asher Diaz

“When I was a child, I memorized my mother’s hands as she folded clothes.

My favorite smell is clean laundry, because

it reminds me of my mother and Saturdays spent at the laundry mat watching my clothes tumble

instead of in the living room watching cartoons.

Everything is gonna be all right, she would sing in soap bubbles.”

“my mother,” Dirty Socks and Pine Needles

*photo courtesy Asher Diaz


Sexual healing

bivouaclady:

Resonate
Transform
Hurt
Twerq
One inch punch
Kiss
Nibble
Bite
More
Paint
Pain
Yes
Sigh
Giver
Transform
Fuck
Cum
Caress

domesticated

erinkathrynmorrill:

dogs on leashes

bloodletting leeches

let’s all take midday naps

house cats play in house bands

my dream house is made of sand

i don’t know how to swim

avant-que-joublie:

nobody understands
what it is to exist as
anything other than themselves

whisper-diary:

I collect moments like I would seashells,
raising them to the sky so that they block out
the beach sun and the shining eroded stars
embedded in their small crevices wink down
at me. I blow into them, tasting their sweet
saltiness, and listen to the ocean that resides,
singing, in them. I collect moments like
I would seashells.

Worry.

pianissimissimo:

Where do they go
those slivers of me and you
that we forced into each other
late July?

------writer/25/chicago,il.


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