mood board: strange magic

emerald

a floral mess

dress: asos/ shoes: goodwill/ mesh shirt: forever 21/ velvet cape: grandma's dress up box :)

films

"Backpack" | Petite Meller from a.t.mann on Vimeo.




LES JOLIES FRANÇAISES from Kristof Brandl on Vimeo.

la lune pleine

how to make moon tonic:

On the night of or before the full moon (you can use the moon phase calculator on the side of my blog to observe the moon's current waxing phase), place a quartz crystal in a jar and fill it with water. The quartz crystal helps absorb the moon's energy and magic. Look up the time for sundown and place your jar out in the moonlight. At dawn, pick up your jar now filled with lunar potency and drink a little bit every morning. Drink in the moon and allow it to eliminate stress and make you feel aligned. 

I drink in the moon,

round and golden

like a prosperous queen.

Now draw your swords

and slit open my throat

crimson red and glowing liquid

pouring out like melted butter

I fill your empty heart

with lunar potency

and dreams to be fulfilled.

Oh Queen of Hearts,

I confess with a heavy heart

that la lune pleine

isn't for another month.

braid and lace

orphan black

dress: vintage/ collared shirt: H&M/ jacket: vintage/ boots: H&M/ Frida Kahlo pin: local record store

lazy sunday

photos from last Sunday... my sister and I just laid around filing our stomachs with hot chocolate, listening to The Supremes, reading stories, and presing flowers.

photo diary 14

☽ me channeling some serious Virgin Mary vibes ☾

I'm afraid all my satin dresses 

are stained with holy wine

and the pouring blood of night's tears.

The deer follow me at dawn,

sleeping in beds of dried leaves and thyme

as I dream of relentless forgiveness.

My veins are like cooled rivers,

and my fingers shake 

from a lack of cups of Turkish coffee.

(please read me my fortune).

Yet they are coming for me 

but please be gentle

for I bruise easily so,

pale purple pink plot

enough spots to create constellations:

Virgo, Scorpio, Orion.

I want to dissolve

into something

so big and dark

you could only see me

in the moon's most

honest hour.

photo diary 13

The boy with webbed hands and seaweed eyes

had a funny way of saying things.

he choked on tufts of marigold

and tumbled through fields of lavender.

He always had a pocketful of pistachios

just so he could leave behind their empty shells

to be crushed and cracked upon.

One day he decided to leave,

Just like that.

And so he packed some herbs

and such lovely portraits of

people with pastel frosted dresses

and powdered wigs.

You know, he once told me that he was afraid.

Afraid of forgetting the hymns he sang every day.

He said once his webbed hands were wrinkled

and his eyes drained of color

and had turned to a mysterious murky melon,

he would surely forget.

First the last lines and then the chorus

and soon enough there would be no song left to sing.

His sanguine cheeks were now just a pale palette

as he dried damp dears in my loose arms

and begged me to never forget him.

And I promised him that I never would.