Ladurée Saint Honore Rose Framboise

HUNTER SCHAFER for Givenchy at Paris Fashion Week 2019

feeling blue. like I tried to reach for something, something I felt my bones pop out of their sockets for, and it never existed in the first place. my nerve endings twisted around your name, my body tangled in your half empty desires. feeling like I’m drowning in the what ifs and unanswered questions. like. am I that easy to forget. did you ever really love me. was any of that real. were the last 8 months really that fucking empty. what a horrible mess we made, blue eyed boy. our love, a graveyard of everything we once promised each other

tag yourself: lana del rey edition

diet mountain dew: strawberry milkshakes, vintage diners, heart-shaped sunglasses and tennis skirts, party girl, glittery makeup, lip gloss, heartbreaker

national anthem: 60s soft glamour, expensive taste, gold and pearl jewelry, old hollywood black and white films, elegance, red lipstick

bel air: ethereal and angelic, picking wildflowers, butterflies and soft animals, believing in angels, pink blush, gentle and kind

ride: crushing on guys that ride motorcycles, 70s angel, free spirited, getting into trouble, independent, reckless, adventurous

brooklyn baby: slow dancing to rock music, low key nyc bars, kissing in leather jackets, cigarettes and jazz, smoky eyes, mysterious

florida kilos: tropical baby, mimosas, drawn to the ocean, sun-kissed skin, gold highlight & shimmer, short dresses, moonlight dancing

salvatore: would rather be in italy, grapes & oranges, sunshine, white sundresses, fresh cut market flowers, hydrated skin

honeymoon: romantic and sensual, easily broken heart, love letters, fields of roses and peonies, hazy afternoons in love, warm vanilla

tag yourself: autumnal/halloween edition 🥀♡

ghost maiden~ ♡ a castle shrouded in mist, playing chopin’s nocturnes by candlelight, early morning walks across frosty meadows, a white victorian nightdress with a wilting lily of the valley bouquet, bewailing the day you were abandoned at the altar, the ‘giselle’ ballet, tear-stained love letters thrown from the tower or into the icy lake...

19th century vampire~ ♡ attending the opera in a moth-eaten velvet gown and lace gloves, a cursive-inscribed first edition of ‘carmilla’ from your first lover, hosting elaborate feasts for the local nobility but only drinking red wine, a dusty french boudoir of old treasures: vintage glass bottles of perfume and antique art, reminiscing with byron and wilde...

forest-born witch~ ♡ mushroom picking at night, a cat-shaped familiar composed of shadow (named circe), singing in latin to our lady the moon or hekate, velvet spell bags of herbs and tumbled smoky crystals, casting off one’s earthly form to step through the incense veil into the world of spirits, a cauldron of stewed apples and blackberries for teatime (guests include the grimm and medea)...

academic-turned-detective~ ♡ ancient ink-blotted manuscripts of homer’s odyssey, solving a century-old murder mystery, pearl buttoned blouses and shabby oxfords, wandering a cemetery with hot cider or cinnamon cocoa, haunting gloomy chapels on rainy afternoons, melting wax to seal a hand inked letter to an old friend...

angel of sweet death~ ♡ a lovely-hearted heartbreaker, worn out ballerina slippers and a black silk slip (with a cashmere cardigan for the evening), ‘girl’s night’: black and white horror films and devil’s food cake, tying a velvet ribbon to a tree branch as to not get lost in the enchanted forest, follower of lana del rey and stevie nicks, weeping tiny black pearls and coughing up dried rose petals...

things my abuser has tried to take away from me but failed:

1) Love in the form of sunflowers and surprise dinners and intertwined fingers. Romance and deep kisses, warm and safe. Dancing and giggling with him to Lily Allen. Kissing him and wondering what I did to deserve a body so soft, a love so raw and honest.

2) Love in the form of looking after this heavy body, even when it doesn’t look after me back. Face masks, showers and brushing through my matted hair, knotted like a unkempt garden. Dragging myself to therapy and loving all the charred parts of me. Loving me flawed, loving me regardless, loving me unconditionally, loving the me that survived.

3) Love in the form of a best friend. Nights spent sleeping next to her, nights spent crying into her lap, nights spent singing at the top of our lungs. She loves me silently, knows me when I’m down, knows me when I’m up. She doesn’t love me different, even with all the flaws.

4) Love in the form of family, with their misguided love and tentative support. Love in the form of my mother’s perfume and food she tells me to eat even when I feel I don’t deserve it. Weeks spent in hospital, bringing me my favourite food in the ward. Love in the form of her imperfection and how I wouldn’t change it for the world.

5) Love in the form of music, of dancing around in my room to the anthems of my youth. Of belting it out as loud as my lungs will allow. Songs I’ve cried to, laughed to, kissed to, lost to. Songs that held me up and gave a melody to all the hurt.

6) Love in the form of the poet in me. On my best days, she is all that I am. On my worst days, she is all that I want to be.

7) Love in the form of hope. A love that screams I made it. A love that believes it happened. Recovery has finally, finally begun to taste sweet.

types of people: film genres

film noir: wears a lot of black, has a constant air of mystery, effortlessly sultry, prefers to be alone, doesn’t even write down their secrets, probably the smartest person you know

screwball comedy: clumsy, quick-witted, has an infectious laugh, not afraid of being embarrassed, a lot of self-deprecating jokes, fit and energetic, some communication issues

science fiction: has a vast and varied collection of books, seeks out one-of-a-kind works of art, stays up late, keeps a lot of notes, openly talks about social issues, surprisingly existential

horror: wears jewel tones, constantly aching for october, reads gothic literature, prefers gloomy weather, not squeamish, intrigued by spooky stories, a night person

fantasy: decorates with fairy lights, puts flowers in their hair, has a sweet tooth, wears blankets as capes, spends way too much on scented candles, frequently watches disney movies, believes in magic/wishes it were real

musical: wears lots of different colors, sings in the shower, cheerful and friendly, twirls a lot, loves to be with people and play games, doesn’t mind being the center of attention, prefers being out of the house

period drama: a romantic soul, loves lace and satin, goes on picnics, enjoys the ritual of makeup and skincare, fascinated by old fashion trends, owns more than one book of poetry, goes antique shopping

does he want you for what you are or does he want you for what you give

I used to practise perfection in the form of open legs and a closed mouth, smiling and saying “hey I won’t be inconvenient for you, baby, after all I’m the granddaughter of the witch you managed to burn”. but god, I’m so tired of being propped up and jadaposed. so tired of the hackling in the street and the fear at night and the “I know you want it” from men who look like knives. I’m so tired of being told my body is too woman to really mean anything.

And I’ve grown tired of hearing speeches like the one I’m making now. I’ve grown tired of saying I was raped and I am black and I am a woman and that I want to make a change. screaming all these facts into a world that remains so deaf to me. deaf to people like me.

deaf to the little girls who are married off to men three times their age. deaf to the teenagers who are prey to older boys and men and teachers. deaf to the women in the workplace. deaf to the trans-girls.

grab em by the pussy and metoo and date rape and “oh my god, him too?”. what am I supposed to do anymore? how am I supposed to structure myself as a sexy woman but not as a woman whose asking for it? how can I explain to others that they should be mad that this world is on fire, rather than that it’s ashes are ugly? when did the common good get so political? I’m so tired of it all. so tired.

there are so many important things to resist and I’m still trying to tell myself that I don’t need to use sex as a currency. that I should not feel forced into it. that my body is my own. but it is not the most important thing about me. all this internalised self hatred for a body that has done nothing but exist.

the active side of infinity | víctor m. alonso [‘the active side of infinity’ is a book by Carlos Castaneda]

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