untitled (girl with balloon), around 1960
photo by heinz held, from 20th century photography
(via themorriganmeditations)
The hardest part for me isn’t the lies; or even that you used me.
It’s the fact that I matter so little to you, that you’d just let me disappear.
(Source: brivonk)
Forget my voice.
I really don’t know what to tell you.
I know I love her because I have words for everything else and this doesn’t fall into those categories. Sort of like pouring all my thoughts through a sieve and love is the only one that catches her.
(Source: ayeemissmarie, via lick-a-vagina)
The Facts.
I live in this tiny little basement suite in New West.
It’s cramped but doesn’t make me feel half as confined as my parent’s house did. Which was like a hungry dog chained to a post.
Just so you know.
Sometimes I can hear the guy upstairs having sex.
BE A SADIST,
no matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them - in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
—Kurt Vonnegut
This song totally gets me.
October Blues
Sometimes even breathing hurts, like the air is full of tiny particles of glass that scratch my throat with each inhale.
Or maybe it’s just existing that’s become too much. This world is a watercolor painted in shades of grey, a patchwork quilt of “I think I fucked up again.”
It’s almost like being a rock too close to the shore, constantly being bombarded with waves. As soon as you think they’ve stopped, and you start to dry off in the sun - thinking your little rock-thoughts and living your little rock-life - another wave hits you.
I guess this is what you call ‘coping’
