Not a perfect soldier, but a good man.


I don’t want to be the one
The battles always choose


Forget prayer,
this is where we stand:

Take your mouth
put it anywhere you please.
Your mouth, my stomach
Your mouth, my thighs

I will be all three:
your altar
your holy wine
and your bent knees

Azra.T “Cherry Wine” (via 5000letters)

COALESCING: a mix for when on the streets, it converged: sounds of space, sounds of loneliness, sounds of weighted conspiracy from behind closed doors. thick and mysterious, it weighed so heavily in your palm, you could sleep in it. (LISTEN/DOWNLOAD)


make me choose
↳ anonymous asked: achilles  patroclus

Patroklos is for Achilles the πολὺ φίλτατος … ἑταῖρος — the hetaîros who is the most phílos by far’. »

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.

"My greatest misfortune would be to marry into a family who would carry me as their shame as I have been required to carry my own mother. Her apparent crime to be born negro and mine to be the evidence. Since I wish to deny her no more than I wish to deny myself you will pardon me for wanting a husband who feels ‘forgiveness’ of my bloodline is both unnecessary and without grace."

the boy king. click for full resolution.

Turns out I’ve had the most terrible things happen. And the most brilliant things. And sometimes, well, I can’t tell the difference. They’re all the same thing. They’re just me.

lilith’s ghazal


i was resurrected a mapmaker’s bride so i contoured fallen continents between my thighs
amid the inventories of wanderlust, you unwrapped the hidden refrain of this wait

she will address you in the argot of archangels,— whose skin is silk blossoms and satin mist
still the webs in her words all velvet draped (beneath) the baccara reign of this wait

oracles scratched the sapphire in my throat, so i still sparkle my apologies in jewel tones
truth be told, i sold my voice to the once unspoken quatrain of this wait

my archipelago dotted with scars and secret; you approach this body as though a conquistador
must i remind you of the wars that were lost in me, the white flags buried in the terrain of this wait?

i have burned enough autumns in my palms, each with a moth rinsed in ochre & rose
even then in your hands, i am a pinned firefly only half slain of this wait

they say desire demands distance or death; it is not what the witch claims but what she leaves behind
then tell, o kindled heart, are you love or just a legerdemain of this wait?

Scherezade Siobhan©