build me a city and call it jerusalem

"here is a map with your name for a capital. here is an arrow to prove a point - here is my hand, my heart, my throat, my wrist. here are the illuminated cities at the center of me." allie [x] likes (telling, reading, hearing) stories and being a nerd...

[sparklecorpse-deactivated201906]

i dont care if u never listen to me ever again just let me be ur internet dad for just one second: dont start cutting yourselves please ever

[sparklecorpse-deactivated201906]

ok im gonna reblog this again bc i want more ppl to see it?? ive compiled a (by no means complete) list of the things u can expect if u start:

- u cant stop. its a legitimate addiction. there is no ‘seeing what its like’. its soso hard to stop it and believe me, because that was me. i thought i would sate my curiosity but all i did was make my life miserable - everything can become a trigger. someone carved things in a table?? trigger. u get a scratch by accident?? trigger. see something sharp?? yup.  - the scars dont go away and if people see them (and no matter how hard you try, people will see them) they get this awful fucking look on their face like a mixture of disgust and horror and pity  - u have to sit through people making shitty fucking jokes and calling people like you (real, struggling people like you) edgy emos looking for attention and it makes you feel sick but you have to sit there silently - in fact, any conversation about self harm becomes thoroughly uncomfortable because they’ll talk about it like no one in the room has ever gone through it (or, if they know, they’ll glance at you out the corner of their eye when they think you cant see) - any emotion can give you the urges- not just negative. ur body associates the happy feeling with the pain so ur brain is like ‘????? u cant have one without the other??’  - it can have been years. years. you can have stopped and got better and you’ll still feel the urge to hurt yourself and it makes you feel like you haven’t improved at all and you’re still fourteen and hating yourself - (maybe this is just me) but some part of you misses it?? you stopped and you know its horrific but its so difficult to get rid of your blades or whatever you use because you feel so weirdly attached to these things that are so awful and you dont even know why 

god damn i just want yall to understand that you dont have to hurt yourself ever, okay?? just. don’t. trust me.

[trauma-tape]

me: feels kinda bad

me: triggers self and turns kinda bad into very fucking bad so i can at least properly suffer™

[nerd-utopia-deactivated20200206]

[caitstadler]

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

It is also November. The noons are more laconic and the sundowns sterner. November always seemed to me the Norway of the year.—Where is Love to-day?

Emily Dickinson, from a letter to Lavinia Dickinson c. November 1864 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[xueyangapologist]

who the fuck manages to eat three set separate meals at three set times of the day. who the fuck does that. i eat however much i’m hungry for whenever i’m hungry, which could be anywhere in the range of once a day, six times a day or constantly snacking, depending on the weather, how much i’ve slept, the phase of my menstrual cycle, how annoyed i am, how well i’m dressed, how much work i have to do, how much food i see that day, how gay i’m feeling,

[domhnllgleeson]

#actually me

[lilthot]

Me as soon as I’m feeling any type of depression creeping upon myself: I need to buy…something..

[rosyting]

you either say how you feel and fuck it up, or you say nothing and let it fuck you up instead

[little-miss-tragedy]

Sometimes, I don’t want to get better. I want to wrap myself in the familiar blanket of gray and mental illness. I want to brew tea with these bags under my eyes, and enjoy the feeling of knowing the next step of my mental break down. I want to paint my body red and finally be something beautiful to look out. You see—recovery isn’t an instagram hashtag. Recovery isn’t green tea and avocado on toast with chia seeds. Recovery isn’t before and after pictures, sponsorships, and Sunday yoga. Recovery is crying before class, and then going anyway—because your therapist reminded you that you just cannot let your mental illness ruin every part of your life. Recovery is looking at your scars longingly, missing the feeling of breathing easy for just a minute. Recovery is telling them that you’re doing well, because no one wants to hear about your sadness for the umpteenth time. Recovery is forcing yourself to go the gym in the morning, because that’s what “good” mentally ill people do, right? Because you can’t recover without looking beautiful, right? It’s actually about health, though, right? It’s not about the fact that no one wants to listen to you if you’re not easy on the eyes. So I guess that this isn’t actually recovery either. Honestly, I don’t know what recovery is, but I do know that it’s been six months since I’ve last sucked on ice cubes for dinner; it’s been one month since I’ve added new tally marks to the scoreboard I’m keeping on my arm. So yeah, sometimes I don’t want to get better, but I do it anyway, because that’s what recovery is—never giving up, even if it means giving up your sense of identity and having to find a new one.

better nights are to come, i hope (14/52) by (DS)

[lenoreamidala]

15 Favorite Photoshoots: Felicity Jones photographed by Eliot Lee Hazel

[sirnotappearinginthisblog]

so nasa opened up applications to be an astronaut and all u have to have is a degree in the “right” field like ok nasa i see how it is u think an english lit major cant go to space well then tell me whos gonna analyze homoerotic subtext in space??? i kno theres homoerotic subtext in space ive seen star wars AND star trek 

[timbllr]

I wonder how I would’ve ended up if you hadn’t walked into my life.

t.k (via timbllr)

[cungadero]

me about to show a genuine emotion to another human being

[latenightcornerstore]

1 So, it’s morning. Or maybe afternoon. There’s light pouring through the window and it’s got you looking the kind of haloed and soft you only see in movies. I’m only half awake but I’m already writing poetry about your eyelashes, can you believe that?   2 In the mirror, I pretend to watch myself watching myself brushing my teeth. Instead, I watch you run your hands through your hair: again and again and again and again. More than once, I’ve seen the way you try to rearrange your body into negative space. Like one of those optical illusions— the vase with the two faces. You forgot you could be both of them. You forgot that when you lean too close to a work of art the whole picture blurs and disappears.   3 A new painting: one with no negative space. You as steady hands and solid ground. You with a ukulele and a dog. Coffee and cayenne. Cheap wine and expensive whiskey. All that blue in your closet. You as the perfect first date and something soft to come home to. Bad jokes and good intentions and all that— light.   4 Yes, light. Listen, so, it’s late. Or the time of night some people call morning. It’s dark in the car, but you laugh— I mean, really laugh. The kind that catches you by surprise and crinkles up the corners of your eyes—and it’s like a camera flash in a windowless room. It’s the best thing I’ve seen, all day.   5 Every morning, the sun has to relearn how to outshine you. Sometimes even she is not bright enough.

INVENTING NEW WAYS TO CALL YOU BEAUTIFUL by Ashe Vernon (via latenightcornerstore)

[greelin]

buying ppl things is SUCH a rush.. even if it’s just like.. a bag of their favorite chips or whatever.. the thought of someone experincing even a split-second burst of happiness bc they didn’t expect to get some of their favorite chips that day? what a thrill! love it

[pou-voir]

We become the sunlight border of an almost-closed window. We become the salt sweat coming out of the back of Eve when she gave Adam the apple. We become the hands that hold and the hands that don’t know how to let go, coil wrapped around our necks, shadows behind our backs, a silent purple fistfight on our mahogany skin and yet, and yet, we stay at every word that hangs in the mouths of men who love us in past tense. We become the bottles of milk left behind the sink. We become the roof, the walls, the soldiers without guns, we become mothers—lungs stretching out like a shoreline, chest becoming an ocean for two. We become the promise that we have told ourselves when we were little. I want to be a princess. A princess. A princess. And then I don’t. I am blood, marrow, bones, flesh, breast, lips, hair. I am. I am. I am a woman. And then We are. We are witches and granddaughters with too little magic but enough strength. We are the throats that learned how not to silent. We are the voice that learned how to make thunder out of quiet. We bang on every door who told us we should stay inside. We missile every country who never expected us to run a war.

 Kharla M. Brillo | All The Women We Needed To Become (via pouvoires)