""I’m trying not to let this get to me, but you’re still in my head."
“You’ve seeped through my ears and embedded yourself into my skull, you fuck.”
“There’s this cassette player in my head, and your tapes jammed in the box. The way you said Vodka, that Russian accent, is conveniently placed on a scratch in the disk, playing in an enteral excruciating loop of lusty Russian madness, and I can’t turn the volume down no matter how hard I yell and scream and try to find the dial. It’s not there.
Did you give it to her?”
“Will you call her your babydoll, too?”
“If I cut deep enough, will I find you?
“Where did you put my heart, again?”
“You know, The way you said my name is more painful than all of the raised fuchsia pink scars on my arm ever were.”
“The drugs don’t make it stop.
You’re in every corner of my conscious and subconscious mind.”
“Please. I want to hear you say my name again.”
“I still think of you.”
“How is she?”
“Is she better than I was?”
“Are you happy?”
“Please miss me.”" - Texts I Refuse To Send, 2014 (via ectofetus04)
"Her heart sank into her shoes as she realized at last how much she wanted him. No matter what his past was, no matter what he had done. Which was not to say that she would ever let him know, but only that he moved her chemically more than anyone she had ever met, that all other men seemed pale beside him." - F. Scott Fitzgerald, A New Leaf (via marcescentfleur)
"For the days I feel loveless I like to imagine
that there are two of me: one smart, one pretty
and the divide between sixteen and eighteen is so sizable
that I’ve started seeing myself as nothing more
than a chasm. My old friends think I’m a whore now,
but my new friends are bored
and I am trying to run both races. Who says I can’t wear
pink lace dresses to hardcore shows? Who says I can’t know
Plato intimately, and still be pretty? My stomach
is making me chose, and I empty everything out
on Saturday nights in the dim light of the bathroom
of a bar I would have run from a year ago. They say you don’t know
anything about yourself until you’re older. When I’m lonely
I decide that no one can love both halves of me.
I imagine killing one, or else splitting down the middle
and letting each half live a little. I know a double life
isn’t good for anybody. My mother won’t love me
anymore if I give in to the wild one. And I could drop
out of school, drop acid in a graveyard and call you
crazy. I could be lazy forever, or write a book of poetry
about all the things that keep the universe glued shut.
Maybe there are separate worlds inside all of us,
but my body is a bomb shelter and I am starting to feel
the strain." - The Art of Being All Things - Hannah Beth Ragland (via allmymetaphors)
"It’s easy to feel uncared for when people aren’t able to communicate and connect with you in the way you need. And it’s so hard not to internalize that silence as a reflection on your worth. But the truth is that the way other people operate is not about you. Most people are so caught up in their own responsibilities, struggles, and anxiety that the thought of asking someone else how they’re doing doesn’t even cross their mind. They aren’t inherently bad or uncaring — they’re just busy and self-focused. And that’s okay. It’s not evidence of some fundamental failing on your part. It doesn’t make you unloveable or invisible. It just means that those people aren’t very good at looking beyond their own world. But the fact that you are — that despite the darkness you feel, you have the ability to share your love and light with others — is a strength. Because despite what you feel, you are not too much. You are not too sensitive or too needy. You are thoughtful and empathetic. You are compassionate and kind. And with or without anyone’s acknowledgment or affection, you are enough. " - Daniell Koepke (via heyhach)