Art By Matteo Moni

“When I was five, I burned my hand on the stove my mother never warned me not to touch. Wrapping my hand in bandages, she told me “You’re a leo, your soul seeks the warmth.” All I understand then, was pain. My mother was born in the late fifties, an immigrant to this country, and she believed in the power of the stars alignment. It wasn’t the first time, nor would be the last my zodiac became the cause and not the effect of her neglect. I broke my ankle, when I was seven, jumping from my dresser. Convinced with my sheets wrapped around my neck, that I could fly. My mother whispered into my hair as I cried, “You forgot the feathers, child.” With a cast on my leg, and a faded scar upon my palm, I listened to her soft voice, with the accent she tried so desperately to hide, tell my favorite story. Of a boy ruled by the sun, burned by the things he could never touch. Icarus must have been born a leo, too.”

— and his mother, the sun | p.d (via p.d vulpe)

in case you forgot it

my hunger ran deep one day. it twisted and turned my insides. attempted to claw it’s way out of my stomach as i inched closer to my prey.

my lover,

i just wanted to kiss you, i didn’t mean to consume all of your flesh and bones but i couldn’t help myself.

like i said, it ran deep and now we are one.

As I pointed out my favorite constellation, I realized the beauty I see in it has always been reflected in her eyes.

— her eyes, the andromeda; echo

"She loves the tranquility of lush green forests. I love the stillness of the deep open ocean. There’s little pieces of each other in our eyes. I blink and I see her world with mine."

— glimpses of us; echo

i look at her and to put it simply, i see my muse for the first time looking right back at me.

Ever since I was a little girl I’ve loved information

she is the spit i cannot swallow the air i cannot breathe her touch so far from me leaving me violent for a rage i couldn’t possibly yet know eternity is not enough for desire

“You sleep coiled; tightly wound. Hands are fists beneath pillows, clenched above cotton sheets. You are at war, even in your dreams.”

— Rest Achilles, the world will wait | p.d (via p.d vulpe)