xx

[000l]

but my soul is too pure for a lustful man

[neckkiss]

Her (2013)

[finita-la-commedia]

“My eyes are sore from imagining.”

— Fernando Pessoa (1880-1935), from “The Book of Disquiet”

[dumblr]

[ruhaniya]

The intimacy of noticing.

[radicidiluce]

[f0restgreen]

The smell of the sun warming damp pine needles

[a-mind-in-ruins]

No revenge because losing me is enough.

[wastedjackpot]

[happyheidi]

𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 𝘚. 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘸𝘯

[feral-ballad]

Linda Pastan, from Insomnia: Poems; “Musings Before Sleep”

[perfectfeelings]

“I loved you in a way I wished someone would love me.”

— Mahmdou Darwish

[perfeqt]

“I’m not much like myself any more.”

— F. Scott Fitzgerald

[lunamonchtuna]

— Mary Lambert, Shame Is an Ocean I Swim Across; "You Are with the Wrong Person" (via lunamonchtuna)

[flowerytale]

The Early Diary of Anaïs Nin, 1923–1927

[mournfulroses]

Langston Hughes, from a poem titled "Minstrel Man," featured in The Selected Poems of Langston Hughes

[vexheart]

Being sensitive is a strength—it means you feel deeply. But unkindness? That’s a choice, and a sad one.