hisporcupine:

I have 2 moods. 

1. I’m too high for this shit.

2. I’m not high enough for this shit.


June 17thvia and with 35,729 notes

"      I could hear running water the moment I decided to stop swimming in my own heart. It was cold out, the winter rain beating drum like rhythms on the worn glass of my window. I had always seen the raining sky as something sad, crying for all it did not understand, but tonight it was angry.
      Shattering and pounding and screaming at the windows, the rain drowning out the dripping tap, tearing my concentration from myself and out into the sky. I wanted to be a constellation or a nebula or something slightly worth remembering. But the rain, it trapped me back into my porcelain chest, my heart ripping at the sinew and marrow in a hope that I would feel something worthwhile again.
      I cry a lot, often for myself. Tears paint my cheeks red, my wrists bleeding stars. I didn’t want to be that girl, the one who danced slowly to fast music, the girl who couldn’t bear the thought of love until she found the bottom of a bottle. I drink until the sky turns purple, until my heart beats thunder and their lips speak truth, and I attach myself to the smallest formation of affection in hopes that it won’t wither as it has so many times before.
      My mother doesn’t believe me when I say that love is for people who hate themselves. She tries so hard to plant roses in my brain, to spark fire into my stomach, but I refuse. Love is thorns and love letters and words dripping arsenic. I don’t want to be rejected, to be tossed aside; I don’t want love to be something I crave. Loneliness has always worked so well for me, protecting me in a cocoon that allows just enough light that I can smile in the mornings.
      I kiss strangers and friends and dance with the lights off and I breathe smoke into my lungs because I am a dragon. I am a castle with a moat and fire. I am mould and danger; the girl who should’ve been left to die. I see my reflection in boiling water, in shattered glass, but most of all, I see myself in the puddles left after a heavy rain.
      I am so selfish. I disgust myself. But at the same time, I cannot help but crave the attention, the lust of others; I want their hands on my body and in my mouth and on my thighs. Breath on my neck, sweat on my back, but I do not want the attachment. The emotion. The love.
      I am not the girl you take home to your mother. I am the girl you meet in the dusty corner of a smoky bar, the girl whose heart lies in the bottom of a bottle, whose feet shuffle to a song that’s ended. I will not kiss you until I can no longer understand what I’m saying, I will not touch you until your name has melted from my tongue. I will not love you until I learn to love myself."


June 10thvia and source with 4,015 notes

"

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 she 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)

April 22ndvia and source with 228,515 notes

"This is where the mountains crumbled
for the first time.
This is where we found a pile of rocks
and pretended we knew something about rebuilding.
Are you still sorry about any of it?
Let’s forget about the candles we left on all night.
Let’s forget about all those clouds we ran from.
Baby, the storm was us the whole time,
and you have to promise to tell me when the
monsters stop showing up here.
I can’t remember the last time I was destroyed,
but I have a feeling it was all in my head.
Maybe these poems were never about how many
people got their hands on my heart,
but whose blood was on my own fingertips.
I don’t know what the war tasted like,
but I remember the graveyard after.
If I survived before, it wasn’t the right way.
If I survived before,
it means I can do it again differently.
Do these pieces of wood everywhere
means someone is building is something or
someone is destroying something?
Maybe the important thing is that it doesn’t matter.
Maybe the important thing is that it is our choice
what to make of it."

—Y.Z, the reminders we never had (via rustyvoices)

"

The first time
you took off your clothes
in front of me, you slid
the white fabric of your blouse
off your arms and revealed
the pale ladders
of scars.

You never referenced them
directly. You said you were
lost, once. You said you
did things, once, and you
did them because they
helped you survive yourself.

I didn’t say anything,
but you took my hand
and pressed it to the
ridged rows of your flesh
and for every line you left
upon yourself and healed,
I found another reason
to call you beautiful.

"

Gabriel Gadfly, “Survival” (via s1mpl3kind0fb3auty)

This.

(via king-ryley)


April 11thvia and source with 10,886 notes

"Delete her number.

Stop ringing her. Stop messaging her. Stop making excuses to see her, to drop by her place.

Erase her name from memory. Remove yourself from her life, more completely than you would like but as completely as she deserves. Move on, so that you can allow her to also move on. When you close your eyes, you don’t get to see her face. Not anymore. You don’t get to think about her lips, the warm glow of her skin when she rests next to you, or how she squeezes your hand in her sleep. You are not allowed to remember the smell of her perfume, that she only drinks mint tea (with two dollops of honey), or that she loves you.

She loves you.

She has been in love with you for too long.

So, forget how she says your name. Forget how she calls your name. Forget how she screams your name. Forget that time you got sick and she stayed up with you all night, letting you lay your head in her lap and holding a cold compress to your forehead. Forget how her hair feels in your fingers. Forget how she looks in your sweatshirts.

Forget her.

Know only that she existed at one point in your life, but relinquish all hope that she could exist at another point — sometime in the future that you are unwilling to specify because you don’t know what you want. Yet. It is not fair for you to swoop in and out of her life as you choose. It is not fair for you to say that you are satisfied with “things as they are” and you will have time to “figure it out” later. Let her stop investing emotionally in you. Let her pour that love and care into the people who deserve her.

Don’t tell her that you think about her all the time. Don’t tell her that it bothers you to hear about her with other people, but that you’re willing to understand as long as she likes you more than them. Don’t tell her that this isn’t the right moment but that there will be a right moment. There is not going to be a right moment. She shouldn’t have to wait for the right moment.

Don’t tell her that you can’t handle ultimatums, that you don’t like the idea of finally adding finality to your relationship — whatever still remains of it.

What you are telling her is that you want to keep her on as an option, that you are taking her for granted, that you want to know she will be there, that you can depend on her at the end of the day. When you find that no one else has stuck around or that those who have are less interesting, less thoughtful, or less doggedly loyal to you.

Doggedly loyal to you.

That is what she has been to you, for you almost as long as you have known her: a constant emotional crutch, the guarantee of stability, a safety net while you reachvout to grasp objects that sparkle and shine far greater than she does. All that glitters is not gold, haven’t you heard?

She is fire. You are ice, and you are afraid that her slow burn will smolder your cool, hard demeanor. That’s what has driven your decisions, your actions all along: fear. You are a coward. You are a hypocrite. You are terrified to let her go, but you are afraid she is too good for you, that she could drive you wild, that you would choke on her flames. That she is too much for you to handle right now.

Right now.

But if you choose not to love her now, you can’t choose to love her later."


April 10thvia and source with 129,575 notes

want


January 19thvia and source with 736 notes

lovequotesrus:

Everything you love is here


January 3rdvia and source with 74,784 notes

"1. I don’t like folding laundry or talking about my emotions. I’m likely to leave both scattered all over.
2. I’m not much for cooking but there will always be coffee.
3. I’ll wear anything of yours with sleeves. I love when they’re long enough to wrap around my hands.
4. Sometimes the world is too harsh, too big. It’s hard to leave the house on days like those.
5. When I was sick as a kid my mom would run a bath for me and wash my hair. It was always so soothing. Maybe you could do that every once in a while.
6. I find it difficult to finish most things. My room is home to countless journals of incomplete thoughts.
7. I won’t love you any less in December. I think my heart just wasn’t meant for the cold.
8. I never truly know why I’m crying so don’t bother to ask, simply be there.
9. There’s whiskey in the medicine cabinet.
10. If things get terribly bad, please don’t give up. Get me in the car and drive to the sea. The waves beneath my toes will wake me up and I’ll be yours again."

—Things to know before promising you’ll stay - CS (via slayr)

December 11thvia and source with 132,513 notes

hitlervevo:

my social studies teacher once told us “human beings are the most selfish of all. even when someone dies, you shed tears only because they are no more around to provide you with whatever they had been for so long”

and it has been 3 years since she said this and this is still what i think about at night


December 2ndvia and source with 850,758 notes

gnastly:

I want you to have sex with me, but more importantly,
I want you to tell me your deepest thoughts at 3 am, and get goosebumps when I kiss your ear, and hold my hand when I’m nervous. I want for you to read me your favorite books, and to help me study.
I want you.


November 20thvia and source with 264,447 notes

triple-six-kids:

this is perfect


November 11thvia and source with 45,537 notes

November 2nd — and with 82 notes

sex-cocaine-whiskey:

Because you can never fill someone else’s emptiness nor can anyone or anything fill yours. We need to find it within ourselves.


October 23rdvia and source with 42,993 notes

"

Don’t fall in love with a curious one.
They will want to know who you are, where you come from, what your family was like.
They will look through your photographs and read all of your poems. They will come over for dinner and speak to your mother about how their curiosity has taught them things of use to her. They will ask you to rant when you’re angry and cry when you’re hurt.
They will ask what that raised eyebrow meant. They will want to know your favorite food, your favorite color, you favorite person. They will ask why.
They will buy that camera you liked, pay attention to that band you love in case there’s a show near by, they will get you the sweater you smiled at once. They’ll learn to cook your favorite meals.
The curious people don’t settle for your shell, they want the insides.
They want what makes you heavy, what makes you uneasy, what makes you scream
for joy, and anger, and heartbreak.
Their skin will turn into pages
that you learn to pour out your entire being in.
Don’t fall in love with the curious one.
They won’t let a sigh go unexplained.
They will want to know what they did
Exactly what they did to make you love them.
Year, month, week, day.
“What time was it? What did I say? What did I do?
How did you feel?”
Don’t fall in love with a curious one because I’ve been there.
They will unbutton your shirt
and read every scar
every mark
every curve.
They will dissect your every limb, every organ, every thought, every being.

“There’s a curiosity in you that will move mountains some day
as effortlessly as you’ve moved me for years.”

"

Don’t Fall In Love With The Curious One (via homosensuous)

This is literally me. I’m the curious one.


October 21stvia and source with 109,767 notes






IANCURTIES