January 2012
“You’re the only girl I’ve seen for a very long time that actually did look like something blooming.”
—_F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is The Night (via crossfirehurricane)
“The wives of loggers tell stories about men broken by falling limbs or treetops or wild chainsaws—they call these things widow makers. I listen to these stories and think, if something happened to my man, I would cut down every tree I ever saw for the rest of my life. When my husband is late coming home from work, I feel uneasy. I imagine our empty home even emptier than it already is. I make sure the phone is working, that I haven’t missed any calls and when he does get home, I beat his chest with my fists. I damn him for making me worry. Most nights, he comes home smelling of sweat and sap, sometimes sawdust if he’s been in the mill. He takes his dirty work boots off and undresses in the mudroom. I watch, leaning in the doorway, holding a cold beer. He always smiles at me, no matter how his day has been. He takes a long sip of his drink, kisses me, his breath warm and yeasty. I tell him how lonely my body has been without him all day. He presses his lips against my neck, pulls at my skin with his teeth.”
—I Am a Knife, Roxane Gay (via nouvelliste)
