One more added to the collection

Taylor. 22. USA Caution:Trigger Warning. I do not promote any form of self harm.

[fightingborderline]

[fauxastrology]

for someone who loves sleep, i do not sleep enough at all

[agonisingpain]

[heavensghost]

Falling - Harry Styles

[itsthesmallthing]

“If you’re reading this, if there’s air in your lungs on this November day, then there is still hope for you. Your story is still going. And maybe some things are true for all of us. Perhaps we all relate to pain. Perhaps we all relate to fear and loss and questions. And perhaps we all deserve to be honest, all deserve whatever help we need. Our stories are all so many things: Heavy and light. Beautiful and difficult. Hopeful and uncertain. But our stories aren’t finished yet. There is still time, for things to heal and change and grow. There is still time to be surprised. We are still going, you and I. We are stories still going.”

— Jamie Tworkowski (via breanna-lynn)

[naturaekos]

“He’s jealous of the moon, because you look at it. He’s jealous of the sun, because it warms you. I feel you, even when I’m not feeling you. I talk to you when I’m not talking to you. I love you, even when I’m not loving you.”

— Basquiat (1996) dir. Julian Schnabel (via amargedom)

[ogchill]

Everytime I gave a fuck, that fuck, fucked me over.

[ithelpstodream]

Ithaca College student Yana Mazurkevich just rolled out her second Brock Turner-inspired photo series, in conjunction with sexual assault advocacy group Current Solutions.

[formerarsonist]

She Lays Down, The 1975

© Henn Kim

[leatherwingsinc-deactivated2015]

[caluummhood-deactivated20140506]

HOLY SHIT, IT WAS THE ORIGINAL ONE

MAKE A WISH

[jamesjoeboyleeeee-deactivated20]

the first post ever on tumblr

[powerpuffsposts-deactivated2025]

I WAS EXPECTING IT TO BE A REMAKE OF SOME SORT HOLY FUCK

[kpopdotexe-blog]

WHO THE FUCK KEEPS BRINGING THIS BACK

[teenyweenynotepad]

reblog this because it shows up every blue moon

[writingsforwinter]

The Morning After I Killed Myself

The morning after I killed myself, I woke up.

I made myself breakfast in bed. I added salt and pepper to my eggs and used my toast for a cheese and bacon sandwich. I squeezed a grapefruit into a juice glass. I scraped the ashes from the frying pan and rinsed the butter off the counter. I washed the dishes and folded the towels.

The morning after I killed myself, I fell in love. Not with the boy down the street or the middle school principal. Not with the everyday jogger or the grocer who always left the avocados out of the bag. I fell in love with my mother and the way she sat on the floor of my room holding each rock from my collection in her palms until they grew dark with sweat. I fell in love with my father down at the river as he placed my note into a bottle and sent it into the current. With my brother who once believed in unicorns but who now sat in his desk at school trying desperately to believe I still existed.

The morning after I killed myself, I walked the dog. I watched the way her tail twitched when a bird flew by or how her pace quickened at the sight of a cat. I saw the empty space in her eyes when she reached a stick and turned around to greet me so we could play catch but saw nothing but sky in my place. I stood by as strangers stroked her muzzle and she wilted beneath their touch like she did once for mine.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to the neighbors’ yard where I left my footprints in concrete as a two year old and examined how they were already fading. I picked a few daylilies and pulled a few weeds and watched the elderly woman through her window as she read the paper with the news of my death. I saw her husband spit tobacco into the kitchen sink and bring her her daily medication.

The morning after I killed myself, I watched the sun come up. Each orange tree opened like a hand and the kid down the street pointed out a single red cloud to his mother.

The morning after I killed myself, I went back to that body in the morgue and tried to talk some sense into her. I told her about the avocados and the stepping stones, the river and her parents. I told her about the sunsets and the dog and the beach.

The morning after I killed myself, I tried to unkill myself, but couldn’t finish what I started.

By Meggie Royer

[imtiredofactingokay]

[maketodie]

[hours-unaccounted-for]

fuck you for being broken glass

[londonfromparis]

There’s moments where I miss you. It makes me want to throw myself into the past and live it all over again - all those happy moments with you. But I stop myself, because as much as I loved you, I couldn’t stand to let you hurt me again. So I stop missing you. I forget about you all over again. I push you to the back of my mind - whoever I miss is gone.

[amargedom]

““Sometimes you tell someone to never call you again, and then the phone rings and you hope it’s them. It’s the most twisted logic of all time.””

— John Mayer (via naturaekos)

[endlesslifeinpain]