BattyBatBatt |
this moodboard is teenage me if he had ever got the chance. |
My favorite excerpt from The Awakening by Kate Chopin—for very shallow reasons, as it doesn’t have very much to do with the themes of the book. Still, when you read it, you’ll see why I love it.
(Source: deletingfreckledzombie)
Dom Pérignon (via opaque-scales)
(Source: queenofteacups, via repository-of-lost-things)
The shirt comes off easily enough, and his torso is left uncovered but for the skintight impenetrable fortress of mesh and sweat and pain clinging to his skin as tightly as he clings to the most remote hint of affection.
You reach down to the bottom edges, ragged with wear, and try to get a hold on it. You manage to slip a few fingers in, but they they’re trapped at an angle fingers aren’t supposed to bend, and you try to move them but, like the finger traps you forced anxious peers into as a much younger master prankster, attempts to pull away only pull you in.
He tries to help, but the binder was tight before, and now suddenly your entire hands are pinned against his torso, and you feel like maybe your combined sweat will dissolve the skin between you and you’ll be some kind of hideous gay boyfriend hybrid. But then you really commit yourself and free your hands, and part of the binder snaps back against his skin and it sounds like it hurts.
He rolls it up further, past his ribs, up over his nipples, until it’s a tightly wound log of black mesh, like a cock ring, maybe, but bigger and less satisfying. He pulls one arm through, and then the binder snaps up around his neck and that sounds like it hurts, and you try to reach over to ease it up, but then you’re caught again.
“Fuck!” he yells, and you’re both dancing around, sweaty and half naked, and then it’s off, and the force of release sends you sprawling backwards and him sprawling sideways.
And you land on your ass, he lands on his, and the binder flies up, hits the ceiling, and then falls back around his neck, like an impossible plastic ring over the neck of a bottle.
(via rosesandincense)
Marcus Aurelius (via larmoyante)
(Source: larmoyante, via repository-of-lost-things)
Tyler Knott Gregson (via imnothayley)
(Source: shastlivah, via rosesandincense)
Fernando Pessoa, The Book Of Disquiet (via mirroir)
(Source: arpeggia, via repository-of-lost-things)
Boys smell ripe and pungent, like fragrant peaches with a hint of rot in them. They smell like sneaky creatures who could hurt you and will hurt you. But we’re not there yet, are we? They still smell like yummy peaches. In the beginning, they always smell like something you would eat and drink.
Boys smell like patchouli, sweat, and gardenias. They smell like hard work, taut muscles, and thick hairy legs. The aromas of a boy are all irresistibly disgusting, which I guess also accurately sums up boys themselves.
Boys smell like Axe Body Spray or maybe Tom’s deodorant or maybe like clean laundry. Maybe they smell like the worst body odor in the world or maybe they smell like their mom or they probably smell like dirty sex. Whatever it is, always know this: Boys never smell like nothing.
Boys smell unavailable, hanging on the corner of your bed with their naked back turned to you. They never did care about showing you their flesh but they did shy away from exposing their heart. You would plead with them, begging for them to take off just one more layer of clothing but they said no and lit a cigarette. That day, boys smelled like tobacco and petulance.
Boys smell like the whiskey they stole from their parents on a Saturday night in high school. You grimaced at the thought of touching their tongue because you felt everything much more at seventeen, but you did it anyway. Back then, you inhaled the smell of boys like they were a drug. You would do lines and lines of smelly hair, stained t-shirts, and bad breath because it made you feel like you were experiencing life and going places. You still do but now they’re just tiny bumps and don’t get you as high.
Boys smell like an unidentifiable musk. Each one comes with his own unique fragrance and the second you come in contact with it, it’s locked into your memory forever. Because even though it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what it is, you’ll smell it for years to come. You’ll smell the boy who used to love you in the summertime at a grocery store when you’re 25 or maybe even 30, and it will stop you dead in your tracks, temporarily paralyzed by a memory. You feel like you don’t have a right to sniff that smell anymore so you make a beeline for the exit and get the hell away from it. You go home and drown yourself in your own perfume and try to erase its mark.
Boys smell like fresh cut grass, firewood, and ash. They smell like security, which can often be scary. When a boy wraps his long arms around you, you soak it all in while knowing that you could eventually one day despise his smell. We all have the option to hate the things we once loved and the musk of a certain boy is no exception. Remember that in the beginning, boys smelled a delectable peach but that seemed like a long time ago. The peach has started to bruise and change colors. It’s collapsing like a souflee and being overtaken by rot. We’re at the end of the line now and you just smell like a dirty boy who hasn’t showered in three days. It’s no longer endearing or irresistible. You’re just another smelly boy.
Smells are forever.
(via rosesandincense)
