Azra Tabassum's Blog, page 173

mistletoewalsh:❝ Isn’t this what trust looks like? Isn’t it...

mistletoewalsh:

❝ Isn’t this what trust looks like? Isn’t it how I am always skin and emotions for you? ❞
—— Azra.T

Alex!!! Stop it!!! I’m going to EXPIRE.

Alex!!! Stop it!!! I’m going to EXPIRE.

Drop everything now Meet me in the pouring rain

Hey Taylor, 1989 was gold. 

"Sometimes someone says something really small and it just fits into this empty place in your heart."

“Sometimes someone says something really small and it just fits into this empty place in your heart.”

- Angela, My So-Called Life

hatzigsut:the new public lynching.leave a black body in the street for hours. call for crowd...

hatzigsut:

the new public lynching.

leave a black body in the street for hours. call for crowd control, but never an ambulance. create a spectacle that says, “this could be you.”

"There’s enough light to drown inbut never enough to enter the bones& stay."

“There’s enough light to drown in
but never enough to enter the bones

& stay.”

- Tonight’s Cantab feature is Kundiman fellow and 2013 Pushcart Prize winner Ocean Vuong! This is from his poem “DetoNation,” as published in Poetry

hobbies include crying hysterically over films about trapped whales at Christmas

hobbies include crying hysterically over films about trapped whales at Christmas

God. Everything you make and write is such art. But you're not art. You're the artist. And that's even more beautiful than the things you make. Everyone loves the artist. Everyone wants to know you. You make incredible things, but you, yourself, you're the

I DON’T KNOW WHAT TO SAY I’M CRYING

5000letters:“The first time he calls you holy,you laugh it...

5000letters:

“The first time he calls you holy,
you laugh it back so hard your sides hurt.
The second time,
you moan gospel around his fingers
between your teeth.
He has always surprised 
you into surprising yourself.
Because he’s an angel hiding his halo
behind his back and
nothing has ever felt so filthy
as plucking the wings from his shoulders—
undressing his softness
one feather at a time.
God, if you’re out there,
if you’re listening,
he fucks like a seraphim,
and there’s no part of scripture
that ever prepared you for his hands.
Hands that map a communion
in the cradle of your hips.
Hands that kiss hymns up your sides.
He confesses how long he’s looked
for a place to worship and,
oh,
you put him on his knees.
When he sinks to the floor and moans
like he can’t help himself,
you wonder if the other angels
fell so sweet.
He says his prayers between your thighs
and you dig your heels into the base of his spine
until he blushes the color of your filthy tongue.
You will ruin him and he will thank you;
he will say please.
No damnation ever looked as cozy as this,
but you fit over his hips like they
were made for you.
You fit, you fit, you fit.
On top of him, you are an ancient god
that only he remembers and he
offers up his skin.
And you take it.
Who knew sacrifice was so profane?
And once you’ve taught him how to hold
your throat in one hand
and your heart in the other,
you will have forgotten every other word,
except his name.”
— PROFANE, by Ashe Vernon

"I don’t want to be a piece of art. Nobody touches artwork. They just look from afar and move on."

“I don’t want to be a piece of art. Nobody touches artwork. They just look from afar and move on.”

- Azra.T