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@daisies--and--disasters
“I tried. I hope you know that. You know that right? I tried harder than I ever did before. I salted bullet holes and mended my own wounds so you wouldn’t think I was damaged because I wasn’t, at least not with you. I stitched myself back together; I tried so hard to make it work, to make things work, to make us work somehow but that wasn’t enough.”
— Ming D. Liu
“i think you can be depressed and not even know it. i think you can think crazy is normal if you’ve never known anything different. i think you can view fist fights as excitement and latch onto the bad because you know that good will follow. and good looks great in comparison. letting go is losing the chase. it’s stringing our losses like needlepoint: cold, uncertain, afraid, instead of using the time to feel: excitement, anger, pain. the cycle of destruction could go in circles forever, but every one of these emotions leads back to you. and damnit, i wanted happiness to be the end goal, but i was too damn afraid happiness wasn’t possible for someone like me. i don’t think i knew what i was doing. i don’t think you tried as hard as you said you did. i think we swept the monsters under our beds like secrets and believed what we wanted to believe. i think we gave up on finding meaning and now we should break the cycle of thinking this is normal or exciting. this will not excite me anymore. this will never make me feel anger again. and without the pain, i think maybe, finally, i will heal.”
— adrenaline rush (via achingchest)
“I. You’re never the same person twice, y’know? Every minute is a new bruise, a new scar, a new silent & lonely suicide. I’m spending all my Thursdays thinking about how caterpillars change overnight, turn from ugly to beautiful & terrifying, & why do humans not have wishbones? Why are we so sad all the time? II. These are the kinds of things I’ve told the Internet about, but not my mother. If she asked, I’d take three shots of my father’s favorite Vodka, chase it down with smoke & self-hatred, & let her know I’m fine.”
— Butterfly | d.a.s
4//12//18: The Devil’s river- bring her back to me
I can barely hear the whispers, they say she drowned in the river. Either by her own hand, or slaughtered and dumped there by the devil himself
Am I to blame?
The church pews have never been this full, but lately our small town is adamant on praying to a god she never believed in for her return. I join in on the mourning, worshipping the angels we used to be. They never knew her like I did.
Sometimes when I walk among the trees I can still hear her calling my name, A sweet laullaby whistling just out of reach
She was a stone cold killer whos being was all that ever kept me alive. Now it’s rotting and decomposing under chronic sunshine.
The buzzards fly into the trees and fall dead above the rippling current,
Not even the gods can touch her now
Some days I try to imagine her corpse ruined beneath the depths, Her jaw is unhinged and her skin torn off of her wicked skull, Unrecognizable to those who never took time to rip her apart, glimpsing what she looked like under the surface.
I think she’s still beautiful with mold blooming around her bones
Her watery grave lays running, as if it were still alive somehow, her suffocation choking life into the stream
She was too old of a soul to die young, i’m too dry to have tears spilling over my cheeks anymore
She was a poor sinner who’s hands could turn water into wine
And she sure did mine
I crave a kiss from the cold, intoxicated, dead lips of my lover who now lies below, I feel her watching me from above. The only thing that kept me sober was the sound of her skin on mine and now shes gone. Wine rolls off my tongue like muddy water and tears, I drink only with the living dead.
Flowers grow around the old river now, marigolds and forget-me-nots sprouting from the earth shes nourished
I keep them well gardened, diving until I feel her pale flesh on my fingertips
I’m waiting for her to pull me under
“Why do you flinch so hard?”
Maybe there was a time when someone wasn’t kidding when they swung at me.
“THE DANGERS OF FALLING OUT OF A TOXIC LOVE: 1. you’ll want to wear red lipstick, make artwork on foreign bodies, and make out with all of your friends who have ever called you pretty. 2. you'll want to give them teeth marks as a warning against falling in love– they won’t feel it because they are too busy enjoying it, but the next morning, their whole bodies will be numb. 3. think of the former: you with him. remember how it feels. think tiring, the way it feels to love in circles around someone who keeps running. 4. you’ll want the alcohol to burn through you. it never will. you’ll want the cigarettes to make you die before you want to live. 5. you can’t live like that. he is poison. he is sadness. there is a difference between giving up and being brave. don't think you can ever be too harsh when it comes to your heart. 6. it’s so scary to let someone else in. i am so proud of you because this is when you know it’s over– when his conscience isn’t on your shoulder anymore. i want you to know it’s okay. 7. it’s okay to kiss someone else. it’s okay if boys become yellow lights you speed through. he is not the police. he can’t stop you. 8. know the difference between you and him: you don't have to sleep with someone to know you are powerful. you do it because you want to.”
— the dangers of falling out of a toxic love (via achingchest)
It’s on nights like these that I think the stars are swallowing me and regurgitating me, not whole, but in fractions of myself and pieces of the world around me. I cover my hands in purple glitter and I feel the steady hum of the background radiation slowly annhiliating my blood cells. I haven’t called my mother in three weeks and I seem to forget every time I eat a little blue pill or take another sip of whiskey. My blood seems to pump too fast and I haven’t slept in days because all I can fathom is oceans, oceans, oceans. I ate for the first time today, after I puked up stars and cried watercolors in the bathroom. They ask me what my problem is and I can’t speak because I carry rocks in my wrists and my spine. They don’t understand that love is a melted crayons and a wet battery and god tastes like clementines.
on nights like this I think a.c.m (pt 3)
It’s 4:09 and for some reason every little piece of poetry I read and didn’t understand makes sense. I can taste you in my mouth and I haven’t seen you in a month. I can feel your finger prints like acid on my skin, I never noticed how many places you touched. I can feel every hug the warmth replaced with ice and it’s hard to remember how your skin felt. Every word you ever said to me is ricocheting in between my ears trying to remember which way it entered my head. And all I can think about is how your body fit so perfectly next to mine and I can’t understand how you don’t think that we were meant to be
I can’t remember how it felt to be held by you
(via daisies--and--disasters)
Chronic Illness Reimagined as Something Glamorous
If someone punches you in the stomach,“ he says, “it’ll hurt whether you were expecting it or not. So if the person you love stops loving you back, you’re going to feel the blow even if you saw it coming.
S.Z. // Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #195 (via blossomfully)
(via C)
I hope everytime you hear my name that shit fuckin hurts
It’s been 8 months and she still talks about you like you put the stars in the sky. You really meant something to her.
You ruined her. (via written-on-polaroids)
I miss you, More than I know what to do with. My chest is full, the emotions overflow onto my cheeks, the flooding continues and my composure is swept away. The waves take me under every day. We are where we are because of me, The walls began to crumble because I pulled them apart. So why wasn’t I ready to catch them?
Fall, 2017 (via isaacwrites)
i don’t know what living a balanced life feels like when i am sad i don’t cry i pour when i am happy i don’t smile i glow when i am angry i don’t yell i burn the good thing about feeling in extremes is when i love i give them wings but perhaps that isn’t such a good thing cause they always tend to leave and you should see me when my heart is broken i don’t grieve i shatter
Milk and Honey (Rupi Kaur)
If it is right, it happens — The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.
John Steinbeck,”Letter to Thom Steinbeck,” 10 Nov. 1958. (via thequotejournals)
Maybe we’ll meet again in a couple of years and laugh about how we broke each other’s hearts. You’ll ask me if I remember how you left me alone one night, my skin still warm with the memory of your last touch. I’ll ask you if you still know how we fought, how we screamed until our throats were sore, how we clawed at each other with words that inflicted more pain than a weapon ever could. How you drank to forget and I drank and always remembered. And I’ll tell you how much I missed you when it was over and that’s when I’ll realise I still do. And then you’ll ask me, with your right hand pressed to the soft skin on my neck, if maybe our timing had been wrong back then. If maybe we hadn’t been meant to last. And how maybe now our timing was just right.
evening thoughts #19 / timing n.j. (via ninasdrafts)
