Hans, The Mermaid's Son, From Andrew Lang's The Pink Fairy Book By Henry Justice Ford (1897)

Hans, The Mermaid's Son, from Andrew Lang's The Pink Fairy Book by Henry Justice Ford (1897)

More Posts from Shunrehihosumedha and Others

shunrehihosumedha

1 month ago

So write like a meteor falling, burn bright one last time. The dead before you, live in you and sing. This planet is one big graveyard of silver spoons, diamonds and crowns. You were born with none. So write flowers, write love letters, mouth poetry, kiss it blue. One day you will be debris too, so write.

- From Bad Poetry and This Loving, Sakshi Narula

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shunrehihosumedha

3 months ago

I Bagged The Most Hottest And The Most Romantic Dude From Tumblr (it’s A Sign For You Girls Too)

I bagged the most hottest and the most romantic dude from Tumblr (it’s a sign for you girls too)

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I love him spilled words why is he so cute desiblr desi tag desi tumblr desi blog desi blr bagged the hottest dude ever can’t wait to have his kids lol

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shunrehihosumedha

5 months ago

—Andrea Gibson, "Good Light," Lord of the Butterflies

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shunrehihosumedha

2 months ago

Unknown // Suzanne Scanlon

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shunrehihosumedha

1 month ago

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shunrehihosumedha

4 months ago

to the person in the bell jar...

Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Unabridged Journals Of Sylvia Plath’ / Vilhelm Hammershøi / Nicole Krauss, from ‘The History of Love’ / Ramon Casas / Joy Harjo, from ‘Speaking Tree’ / D S (saatchiart) / Fyodor Dostoevsky, from ‘The Idiot’ / Aleardo Terzi / Sylvia Plath, from ‘The Bell Jar’

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shunrehihosumedha

1 month ago

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shunrehihosumedha

2 weeks ago

- Franz Kafka, The Diaries of Franz Kafka

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shunrehihosumedha

3 weeks ago

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shunrehihosumedha

4 weeks ago

“Et in Arcadia ego”

(Even in Arcadia, there am I)

I will tear my heart out; before this cathedral of flesh lets me go

The pink ribbon scars remain, delicate inscriptions of things I never dared say aloud

I have bled in silence, tried to scour regret with ritual and rainwater… but it clings, a second skin, soft as memory, heavy as guilt

My angel wings; once alabaster, now bound in velvet chains; a slow suffocation beneath borrowed holiness

They ache when the wind moves.

They remember flight.

My belly burns with the echo of choices, each one a blade turned inward, an inheritance of fire

There is no absolution here; only the architecture of longing, and the dust that gathers in the mouths of the dead.

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