I confess…
I confess my thoughts
drift towards the wicked…
That imagine you, naked,
barely covered by a sheet…
I confess that my thoughts
get worse, more decadent
that I imagine your foot
gliding up my leg, and
that your toes, Oh God
your toes, are slightly cold…
I confess this is not where
this all end, there is worse…
I confess I imagine your smile
as your play with me, and
your laugh as your painted
toes replace my wanton fingers
I confess,
I confess,
I confess
Don’t let yourself be a victim of your negative thoughts. They’re just thoughts, not reality. Don’t let them destroy you.
I suppose it is good for the soul to be hurt and perplexed perpetually. I know at least that I miss you damnably: that is a good fixed star. I do, Virginia; and would rather be hurt by that, and have something solid to hold on to, than flounder in a quicksand that never bruises but only smothers.
— Vita Sackville-West in a letter to Virginia Woolf, 9 February 1927 (via courcel)
