Mind you, sometimes the angels smoke, hiding it with their sleeves, and when the archangel comes, they throw the cigarettes away: that’s when you get shooting stars. ―Vladimir Nabokov  (via coyotegold)

She wants to travel to Spain,
And ride bikes through Barcelona.
She wants to bathe under waterfalls and stick guava leaves in her hair.
Wants to meet boys with voices as smooth as a Spanish guitar,
That offer her cigars and bourbon,
And laugh as she chokes because they burn her throat like the
Candles that burned her fingers
When mama told her not to get too close.
She wants to kiss and fall in love,
Just so she can stumble out of it’s spell,
And wake up renewed because she’s a woman now,
And all women fall out of love, and become wise and wonderful like
Her mama was.
Wants to become a woman with a job,
That’s pissed because she didn’t get that big promotion,
So she goes to the bar, and buys the most expensive wine,
And meets a man that she takes home with her,
And he keeps telling her how good she looks in that dress,
The red one with the satin straps,
And the Versace heels,
That she stumbles upon because she’s had a little too much to drink .
She wants to get married to a lovely man and have beautiful children,
Tuck lemon sprigs in her daughter’s hair,
Wants to wear paisley-printed aprons and make tamales.
But at the same time,
Wants to engage in love affairs with men and women,
And eat figs with tea because that’s the thing to do.
She wants to live a long life,
With a few twists and turns,
And die happy in a hospital bed.
But also wants to perish young and pretty,
Wants it to be a tragedy,
Maybe linger a little too long on the train tracks or
Die in the middle of lovemaking,
melt like butter into his skin,
And never return.
She wants. ―Flowerina, For Isabeli (via flowerina)