wishful drinking

[drunkenthots]

You don't love him, winter just wasn't your season.

breathe (2 am)

[drunkenthots]

She was a light. She was strong. She was happy. And then one day, he walked into her life. He made her light shine brighter. He showed her a new kind of happiness. He made her stronger than ever before. But one day, he decided she wasn’t enough, so he walked away. And he took all of her light with him. She desperately searched for it in every pill bottle and one night stand but it was no use; she was living in darkness. Her life became a long tunnel with no light. Slowly, she began to see again. It wasn’t that she found new light, but that her eyes had adjusted to the darkness. She began to feel a sickly kind of comfortable, knowing that no more light could be taken away, and eventually, she stopped looking for it at all. Darkness had consumed her, and she had given in. And later, when a glimpse of light finally appeared, she couldn’t look. Because once upon a time, she shined brighter than the sun, yet after him, light only hurt her eyes. Because this time, she didn’t know if her eyes would be able to adjust if she lost it again.

you took everything

[moonlittmusings]

And there will be nights when your life will fall apart and no one will notice the mornings you spend putting it back together.

[lach-er-deactivated20201024]

He is not the sun. You are.

Christina Yang  (via iam-gogh)

[misschelly19]

This is the chemical formula for love: C8H11NO2+C10H12N2O+C43H66N12O12S2 dopamine, seratonin, oxytocin. It can be easily manufactured in a lab, but overdosing on any of them can cause schizophrenia, extreme paranoia, and insanity. Let that sink in.

(via fawun)

Damn

(via makkaveli13)

[drunkenthots]

it’s funny how at 2 in the morning you’re off with your friends, laughing and living, high on life, when I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, too drunk to remember my own name, wondering when exactly it was that our “eternal” flame began to die, and my heart was finally burned to ashes.

my broken heart (via drunkenthots)

[thelovejournals]

She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines. She was beautiful, for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No, she wasn’t beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her soul. She is beautiful.

F. Scott Fitzgerald (via thelovejournals)

[wordsnquotes]

The only thing I know is this: I am full of wounds and still standing on my feet.

Nikos Kazantzakis  (via wordsnquotes)

[wnq-writers]

One year ago I would have died for certain people. One year later, half of them are dead to me.

flxorite (via wnq-writers)

[wnq-writers]

And here I am again… Scrawling your name in the steam on the mirror because every time I see that raw version of myself, distorted through layers of water and mist, all I see are the parts of myself that you created and the parts of myself that can’t live without you. You hid my flaws from me just like the steam on the mirror does. But you disappeared as quickly and quietly as the mist in which your name is written in cursive, and left me shivering in the cold air, barefooted and broken-hearted, after being drenched in the warmth of your love.

noddingpeonies, at least I’ll soon wash my hands of you (via wnq-writers)

[thelovejournals]

We spoke endlessly about everything and nothing. Now, I cannot even remember the sound of your voice.

Michael Faudet, Dirty Pretty Things (via lehdzeppelin)

[gxing-in-cxrcles-deactivated201]

the worst pain is to make small talk with the person you once told everything.

[abweichung-deactivated20170528]

this omg

[drunkenthots]

I am tired of waiting; for life, for love, for happiness. I am tired of sitting back and watching as people around me do their part in creating a better world. I am tired of being insignificant.

lost

[frequents]

You.

Everyone reblogs the same word but no one sees the same face (via cundys)

[drunkenthots]

Because maybe home wasn't a location. Maybe it was simply the people who you were surrounded with that made you feel as if you could be whoever you wanted to be. Maybe home was friendship.

Loving Mr. Daniels

[thelovejournals]

and we drink our coffee and pretend not to look at each other.

Charles Bukowski, “Luck” (via thelovejournals)

[inkbyaporia]

I do not want to miss you. I miss your eyes, your intelligence, your hugs and the nature of your smile. I miss saying your name without whispering it into my dreams and I miss seeing you without tearing at the seams. I can’t shake this feeling like maybe, just maybe, we could go back to where we left off. Because we are like strangers now, pretending like we’ve forgotten. Maybe you have. I never will. How do you tell a stranger you remember the shade of their eyes and the cadence of their handwriting, that their name still sounds like a song to you and that their mind is a galaxy to be explored? I’ve been telling myself you’ve changed so much but I’ve always know the truth.The person I miss still exists. I do not want to miss you, but oh, does it burn. Give me hope that we can try again. I want to try again.

A.P. (4.19.16) you still had my number (via inkbyava)