obsessed with the way that gothic horror is about horror but never directly. it’s not horrific because there’s a haunted house and that’s scary, it’s horrific because the monster inside isn’t a monster, it’s your grief, your loss, your pride, your desire, your fear. the monster skulking in the shadows, the darkness at the edge of the woods, the haunted house that is too broken to be a home—those are manifestations of events that grabbed onto the fabric of time in a fit of abject horror and clamped down so tightly that they couldn’t keep moving forward toward resolution and eventual dissipation like they were supposed to. it’s all about the scared child and the mourning mother and the hunger in your gut and the little emptiness in your chest at the end of the day. those things are all little horrors but you can’t approach them directly to understand them, so gothic horror gives us these little metaphors and says “here play with these for a while and see what you find.” and all of those metaphors need someone to go back to childhood to release them. you have to care, and be curious and clever, and look for a way to heal the hurt. you have to be so achingly human to survive in gothic horror

despite all my saddened rage i am still just a girl in her room watching her silly little films, reading her silly little books, listening to her silly little playlists

So many books, so little time.

— Frank Zappa, (via. luciferifilia).

@lovesdaya

Domenico Fiasella (detail)

I'm not like other girls. I've somehow angered the Gods.

December is a myth for the poets. They think they'll find love before the year ends, but all that's left in the end are their unsent love letters and half written poems.

you’re in her dms, i’m sitting on her bedroom floor, listening to hozier and studying classics with her. we’re not the same.

reading books in Latin, coffee stained papers, piles of books on the desk, spilled ink, wine bottles with a candle stick in it, cherry red lips, a very chaotic mind of new stanzas and creative work. Grecian artwork and statues that crumbled over time. revlon lipsticks and dior blush.

when donna tartt in the secret history said “even more terrible, as we grow older, to learn that no person, no matter how beloved, can ever truly understand us” i fell to the floor and started sobbing and bleeding everywhere

may these memories break our fall

Vienna

the flesh is unwilling and honestly, the spirit isn't too keen on the idea either