voidprinxe:

stop hating on girls who wanna kiss people in museums or aquariums or art galleries stop hating on girls who want things that might be cliche stop hating on girls who want boys to treat them like they’re magic i will protect all girls with my life and just because they care about things that you don’t doesn’t give you the right to belittle them ok i will fight u

(via fallback-laughwithme)

Listen, I know there were days you wanted to die

when the sky was so clear
you’d stand obnoxious underneath it
begging for stars to shoot you
just so you could feel at home.

I know about the ways you misplaced all the right words,
stockpiled every important social cue you ever missed
from the first time you learned you were wrong,
waited to make it right
once everyone stopped watching.

I know you let them beat up your beauty in bed
because redemption was still alive in you, howling relentless, gathering strength.
Felt like ecstasy when they pounded it out of you in the hard dark.
Those days of dead weather
got all strung together
and they spoke for you,
wore you down to telling everyone here it was a good life
so you could run back into the wails of your windfight.

I know the parts of your past that haunt you the most
are the days you weren’t being yourself,
and I know that’s why most of your past haunts you.
There were so many who found you out,
and they were right.
You were good.

So
un-
numb.

Buddy Wakefield, “Healing Hermann Hesse” (via cloudyskiesandcatharsis)

(via fallback-laughwithme)

corsicans:

skyline (by Erika Heather)

(via ankhors)

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)

(via elephant-houses)

If opening your eyes, or getting out of bed, or holding a spoon, or combing your hair is the daunting Mount Everest you climb today, that is okay.
Carmen Ambrosio (via jesusfuckmechrist)

(via elephant-houses)

rubyetc:

mmmrrrrrr

(via fallback-laughwithme)

I will write a dictionary of all the words I have used trying to describe the way it feels to have finally, finally found you.
Clementine von Radics (via floriental)

(via coffeeisneverstrongenough)

I want you. I want your sleepy confused look when you wake up, and the smile that follows. I want to be the warmth that fills the space in your bed. I don’t want to share you.
unknown (via poutylilgirl)

(via sparkling-liess)

Being a good writer is 3% talent and 97% not being distracted by the internet.
the writer reblogs, being distracted by the internet  (via hughsdancys)

(via riseafterfalling)

What's up buttercup

Anonymous

I’m trying to tune a guitar so I can teach myself to play!

I love you because I would be devastated if someone else got to have you. I would race from both ends of my devastation like a worried dog, pacing the space you left and wondering who was holding you against them at night. I would die that way, at the bottom of a ten hundred foot hole I wore into the ground from wanting you. I love you jealously and with a fever that boils on the surface of my skin like water in hot oil. Loving you feels like racing to the top of a mountain—pointless but an exhilarating accomplishment. I read once that we love the way we want to be loved, and until I met you I didn’t understand, because before you I had never really loved before.

Now I get it. Now, I think I finally know.

 Kristen Fiore // The Hound and The Mountain 
(via ac-ru)

(via ac-ru)