-ommmour-

Alex. 19. STEM Advocate. Stubborn Feminist. Tech Writer. Comp Sci Teaching Assistant. Naturalist. Aerospace engineer aspirant.

[theafternoontiger]

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[agentlewoman-deactivated2019062]

This Year // The Mountain Goats

[griefxaddict]

I’m still searching for the poem inside me, I swear there is a light beneath this leather exterior. You cut me open and left my skin covered in stars. I just wanted to make your scars beautiful, to print my name eternally on your flesh with my lips. You used to have words for me that really meant something, those love-scribbled pages you held close to your heart. You taught me how to start fires, and how hot they burn, and how tears can quench their thirst. I was a raging house fire that threatened to take you down in my flames, but you cried enough to wash me away like a bad stain. We made castles out of sand and dug graves in the dirt, but what’s the point of forever if I fall first? I’ll always be a short walk away, for those times when you’re lonely and losing the light, if you’re lost and alone and growing tired of the fight. When you’re sick of what could have been, and scared of what might, there’s a road map on my headstone to point your way home tonight.

giraffevader - How to put out fires (via giraffevader)

[longleaveslive]

[mindgardenzen]

Energy and persistence conquer all things.

Benjamin Franklin (via mindgardenhealth)

[metamorphosisofmeg]

[thecitywolff]

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[womaninthewoods-deactivated2016]

Nothing, thanks for asking, THATH

[besottedwanderlust-deactivated2]

We went out, but came back home well before eleven. Between the drunk college crowd and the fight brewing, I just couldn’t handle it. The t.v. was on low and Dick Clark was pretty healthy. Your light eyes peered into my dark ones and I could see you read the future. 10 Without words, we kissed. Our last tender touch with unspoken love. 9 Clothes litter the floor in a panic. 8 Hands begin to roam as though we’re strangers. 7 My fingertips were in denial. They refused to memorize your being. 6 Words exchanged, but my ears never hear them. 5 We moved together in a synchronized dance. 4 We climbed together, but the top just out of reach. 3 … 2 This is when my heart broke, just long enough before yours. 1 Happy New Year

countdown | ra bishop (via besottedwanderlust)

[lora-mathis]

When my teacher said that he had the least to say about Plath because she made him uncomfortable how could he know he was speaking to me? How he could he know that I would be sitting there, with skin falling into my lap, practicing death? How could he see me at sixteen, positioning myself in shapes to be found in? How could he read my pages of ages to die at by looking at my hardset face? How could he hear me asking myself if it was her womanhood (her being the first female we had read all semester), or her mental illness that frightened him more? How could he know? That I, sitting silent with my nails digging deep enough into my chin to scar, would hear in his laugh about death-obsessed Plath all the laughs of those who almost found me?

We Watched “Sylvia” In My Class Tonight, Lora Mathis

  (via benswhishaws)

[fartangels]

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[lastdaysofmagic]

He felt warm and familiar. He felt solid and safe. I wanted to cling to his shirt, bury my face into the warm curve of his neck, and never let go.

Becca Fitzpatrick, Crescendo - via lastdaysofmagic (via perfect)

[timgrvz]

[typicalblogs]

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i accidentally turned hozier into a woman.

[rocketumbl]

Space Shuttle Endeavour

[lordeella]

Lorde photographed by Victoria Will

[logixum]

A listless dissatisfaction of corner coffee tables and secondhand bought mugs arises; even scolding hot tea cannot pierce the ice on your tongue. a book stack of unfolding prophesies cascade like the Nile before you: your future awaits, but all you hear is the hum drum of the clock on the wall ticking in place its hands bound by an invisible force; I am not all here.

Describe the feeling of ennui

[logixum]

Website designing and drinking tea is pretty glorious right now.

[ohninesevennine]

What does it mean to write? To write is to do violence against our thoughts, to force structure on them that weeds out the worthless from the worthy, to leave only the strong and logical while the frail and flimsy are banished into oblivion. Writing is the holocaust of our minds.