Sharks Don't Have Scales

Chloe.

Poet, fashion aficionado, and Philly sports enthusiast.

The ghost of Sylvia Plath speaks to me often.



Twitter: @chloestrix

A work of art is something produced by a person, but is not that person — it is of her, but is not her. It’s a reach, really — the artist is trying to inhabit, temporarily, a more compact, distilled, efficient, wittier, more true-seeing, precise version of herself — one that she can’t replicate in so-called ‘real’ life, no matter how hard she tries. That’s why she writes: to try and briefly be more than she truly is.


I’ve always been uninterested in boundaries or quarantines between tastes and types, between mediums and genres.



163137 plays

Bon Iver - I Can’t Make You Love Me

(Source: secretlyahanger)

Kate Mara photographed by Joe Schmelzer for Serendipity, March 2014

Kate Mara photographed by Joe Schmelzer for Serendipity, March 2014

Rummaging in our souls, we often dig up something that ought to have lain there unnoticed.
Leo Tolstoy (via likeafieldmouse)


Dorothy Parker, “Love Song”

My own dear love, he is strong and bold
     And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
     And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled—
     Oh, a girl, she’d not forget him.
My own dear love, he is all my world,—
     And I wish I’d never met him.

My love, he’s mad, and my love, he’s fleet,
     And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
     And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
     As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams,—
     And I wish he were in Asia.

My love runs by like a day in June,
     And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He’ll tread his galloping rigadoon
     In the pathway of the morrows.
He’ll live his days where the sunbeams start,
     Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart,—
     And I wish somebody’d shoot him.