Jacqueline

“The Universe is made of hands;
Hands that twist fabric and sizzle in the air.

Hands that grasp curls and flick words away

Small, smooth fingers pouring gold over gaping wounds

Before slicing into soft tissue,

Blood mixing with gold.

Hands that make it beautiful.

The Universe is made of bones;

Bones that cut against yards of skin,

Warm and yielding and moulded around the wings that splay across his back.

Bones that cage the heart and dig into the hollows.

Bones that break,

Tear the warm, yielding skin.

Bones that shred and brush his chin.

The Universe is made of lips;

Lips that breathe and stutter warm sighs,

Caressing the cracks in his broken body, the body that he broke.

Lips that carve paths into stone,

That leave trails upon gooseflesh,

Lips that make incisions,

Too delicate to mend.

The Universe is made of blood;

Blood that runs warm and hot and steady and crimson,

Pumping beneath the stone and the gold.

Blood that burns with every jerk of limbs.

Blood that spills on open palms,

Staining the fabric,

Filling up his throat.

The Universe is made of eyes;

Eyes that breach and eyes that splice and eyes that never leave.

Eyes that ripple oceans.

Eyes that whisper in the dark.

Eyes that rip open the seams.

Eyes that create wounds, create chaos, create broken shards of blue.

Eyes that alight and

won’t

let

go.

The Universe was built.

The Universe fell.

You took it apart,

Dragged the chaos from my soul with your hands,

Your bones,

Your lips,

Your blood,

Your eyes.

And now you’re back.

And so is the Universe.

And so, I suppose, am I.

The Universe is made of five things.

The Universe is made of you.”
― Velvetoscar, Core 'ngrato

“Poetry is a distinct faculty, - it won't come when called, - you may as well whistle for a wind.”
― George Gordon Byron

“Pretty Words"

Poets make pets of pretty, docile words:
I love smooth words, like gold-enamelled fish
Which circle slowly with a silken swish,
And tender ones, like downy-feathred birds:
Words shy and dappled, deep-eyed deer in herds,
Come to my hand, and playful if I wish,
Or purring softly at a silver dish,
Blue Persian kittens fed on cream and curds.

I love bright words, words up and singing early;
Words that are luminous in the dark, and sing;
Warm lazy words, white cattle under trees;
I love words opalescent, cool, and pearly,
Like midsummer moths, and honied words like bees,
Gilded and sticky, with a little sting.”
― Elinor Wylie, Selected Works

“Se eu me confirmar e me considerar verdadeira, estarei perdida porque não saberei onde engastar meu novo modo de ser - se eu for adiante nas minhas visões fragmentárias, o mundo inteiro terá que se transformar para eu caber nele.”
― Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H.