I closed my eyes to feel more keenly the lovely delicate-child-hands, gently tucking flower after flower into my curls. Pink, crimson, scarlet, white. The faint pungent odor of the petunias was hushed and sweet. And all my hurts were smoothed away. Something about the frank, guileless blue eyes, the beautiful young bodies, the brief scent of the dying flowers smote me like the clean quick cut of a knife. And the blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.
Sylvia Plath (via young-dracula)
(Source: lavandula, via bunnycuddles)
