bro i swr it’s always so awkward when they say thÃs 😫
scary my god you're divine
Maybe I like this roller coaster
Maybe it keeps me high
Sylvia Plath, aged 29, after discovering her husband's affair, in a letter to Ruth Tiffany Barnhouse Beuscher, her former psychiatrist (dated Friday, 20 July 1962)
i don’t want to do anything else but love you
Jaane kyu loog pyaar krte hai
Sometimes it feels like a lie to call myself a poet --
The world is a gorgeous, ethereal place --
All I've ever done is, do my best to use what little words I have to tell you what my eyes have happened to see, and, what my heart has happened to feel.
I'm just another of life's many plagiarists --
Stealing experiences for myself and pretending they're words born from my soul --
So what's the term, then, when the universe's machinations bring me across someone like you, and my heart is filled with so many words that I could write a thousand novels?
A poet?
A thief?
Or simply a woman with a mind, taken, filled to the brim by chance, with desire, need, and affection?
"Could you even describe the warmth of a glowing moon?" V. Rue, 2025.