Oh rascal children of Gaza. You who constantly disturbed me with your screams under my window. You who filled every morning with rush and chaos. You who broke my vase and stole the lonely flower on my balcony. Come back, and scream as you want and break all the vases. Steal all the flowers. Come back..Just come back..

Khaled Juma, a Palestinian poet from Gaza.  (via nowinexile)

Vodka so strong I have to hold my nose
to swallow to get it down and even then it is like
a lightning storm in my stomach. There is music
playing loudly and they are chanting
my name as I take three shots, no pause.
It’s rushing down my throat hot and quick,
and after, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand,
the skin shining like I’ve kissed myself.
The only way to drink it is to convince yourself
that you need it. It’s late but this is what our bodies
are made for, vessels for the music that vibrates
its way through our veins like escape. Surprise
we are throwing up our dinner in the yard
surprise he is kissing you like he’s starving
surprise I didn’t think I would mind. Our
legs unforgivable things in our dresses, mouths
devastating in the glaring summer night. Our hips,
gleaming, wild things. We feel safest in the backseat
of the car because we don’t know where it’s going.

Kristina Haynes, “Backwash” (via fleurishes)

I wrote on my typewriter today. Something impromptu, without thinking too much. Here’s to you, my dear readers.
- Mahima

I wrote on my typewriter today. Something impromptu, without thinking too much. Here’s to you, my dear readers.

- Mahima

The hours between 12am and 6am
have a funny habit of making you feel
like you’re either on top of the world,
or under it.

Beau Taplin (via herekitty)