The Latest

Even in my sleep,
you’re finding the letters
I wrote you,
and even in my sleep
you’re writing back to someone else instead.
If it helps,
I’m still writing
to the light you left behind.
I still let it sit inside of me all day
until my body can’t take it anymore.
You’re my favorite headache
to call my mother about,
and I talk about the dizzy so much,
I almost can’t believe there’s
any of it left to haunt me.
While it happens,
my body dances to the sound
of my own heart breaking.
While it happens,
my hands unfold into flying kites.
I finally need something else to reach for,
but you’re like a disease that comes back to me,
growing and growing
until I almost become it.
Until I almost don’t know anything else.
Y.Zmy body is a disappearing act that doesn’t know where to go (via rustyvoices)

(via rustyvoices)

Aug 22, 2014 / 643 notes
When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty.
Stevie Nicks (via angelingus)

(via ofmidnightandvelvet)

Aug 22, 2014 / 107,769 notes
Everyone’s fucked up. You’ve just gotta decide what kinda fucked up you’re into.
Mark Patterson, @Expherience (via kushandwizdom)

(via ofmidnightandvelvet)

Aug 22, 2014 / 79,289 notes
Aug 22, 2014 / 1,927,919 notes

macklemack:

50 shades of dark circles under my eyes

Hahahahha

(via ofmidnightandvelvet)

Aug 22, 2014 / 39,314 notes
God called me Fish Heart. Lily Mouth. I was an evening sort of girl. He liked me better ripped up, bar bathrooms, bar peanuts, skip the small talk. We’re both Adam. We’re both Eve. In the mornings, swallowing bait, swallowing nails, pulling apart the microwave, two forks and an empty socket. Baby, there is always a limit. Hours spent rubbing my belly, waiting for watermelon trees, or orange bushes, or flowers heavy with green apples. And now, this is what I can dissect: his fingers in the gut of the fish, his fingers in the core of the flower, always pulling. Like it wasn’t enough to feel, like He had to see, to know.
Aug 22, 2014 / 710 notes
Aug 22, 2014 / 209,843 notes
Aug 22, 2014 / 425,675 notes
I’m not really sure which parts of myself are real and which parts are things I’ve gotten from books.
Beatrice Sparks, Go Ask Alice (via larmoyante)

(via ofmidnightandvelvet)

Aug 22, 2014 / 4,306 notes
Isn’t it funny. I’m enjoying my hatred so much more than I ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that’s something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It’s hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but Hatred cradles you.
Janet Fitch, White Oleander (via quoted-books)

(via ofmidnightandvelvet)

Aug 22, 2014 / 476 notes