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2wentysixletters:

I’M GONNA BE OKAY I’VE GOT PEOPLE WHO LOVE ME EVEN WHEN I DON’T REALLY DESERVE IT I’VE GOT THINGS TO LOOK FORWARD TO AND PEOPLE TO LOVE AND DOGS TO PET AND RAIN TO LISTEN TO AND I’M GONNA BE OKAY WE’RE GONNA BE OKAY 

(via absentions)

Thursday with 35,816 notes

1. Remember that writing isn’t the metaphorical equivalent to a bandage. Your messy cursive is as empty as the bed you sleep in. You won’t find him within a carefully worded haiku or a brutally honest novel. Mourn the death of your writer’s block.

2.You must learn that his words are not laced with puzzles and apologies. His quickly blurted sentences are not an enigma yearning to be solved or put together. Your good intentions to create art out of something tasteless only widen the chasms within you. Forget it.

3.Don’t dye your hair a color you know he wouldn’t like. Don’t dye your hair a color you know he would like. You’ll only be left with severed ends and regrets.

4.Don’t kiss a stranger in a drunken hour. Don’t hold a man’s hand in the movie theater. Don’t play with atom bombs masked as delicate boys. Don’t dance your fingers across another’s skin in hopes of finding him in their touch. Keep your hands to yourself.

5. Listening to the song he played for you will not somehow make him magically appear with an acoustic guitar and golden vocal chords. He’s already serenading another windowsill in hopes of finding a place to stay the night. It’s not yours.

6. Sleeping in his t-shirt he accidentally left in your car will only increase the ache in your head caused by the sickening aroma of the detergent ingrained in the woven fabrics. You’ll soon find out that the smell of his skin makes you nauseous. Take it off. Burn it. Give it back even though he never asked. But my God, Don’t sleep in it.

7. Darling, life seems a mess because you are trying too hard to organize it perfectly. You’re engulfed in darkness because your eyes only ever crave the light. Beautiful people don’t just happen. Growing razor sharp fangs in the midnight hour will only take you five steps away from the end of the tunnel. The earth is a wonderland for quicksand that is sinking your feet into its grasp, desperately trying to suck you into self-pity and despair. If you thrash your arms about, trying to make it work, my dear, you’ll only be devoured by sorrow and grief. Loosen your grasp on the luggage that weighs you down. Relax your arms. Tread lightly.

7 Ways to Forget - Elizabeth Hsieh

Thursday with 7 notes

When people point at me and say “don’t know know she has a horrible past?”, Jesus looks at me and says “I know she has a future.”

Thursday with 0 notes

They say that our personalities are shaped by the characters in the books we read.
I read lots of Fitzgerald.
Maybe that’s why I’m such a belligerent asshole who only cares about herself

Thursday with 1 note

The smell of burning wood and hot metal clouded in an ashy gray smoke lingered within the fabrics of my flannel shirt and engulfed the two of us.

We silently watched as the golden flames shifted like a ghost in the breeze and softly caressed the tin it was held in.

And like that flame, I wanted to hold you.

But instead, I held my cheekbones to cover the eruptions of stinging smoke from my watering eyes.

As much as glaring into the glowing embers scorched my delicate, peeling face,

It burned more to look at you.

You Lit Me On Fire and Now I Am Slowly Suffocating - Elizabeth Hsieh

Wednesday with 1 note
I do all the things you used to hate. I dye my hair colors that make the church ladies stare. I go to bed without dinner and subside entirely on air. I make tea and pour cream in after. I give up reading. I give up The Beatles. I never eat another plate of scrambled eggs. I shape myself into someone you would dislike. My speech sharpens. My teeth turn to fangs. I let go of the softness that drew you to me. My fingernails itch to become claws and I don’t fight it. This is what it takes to survive. I let people into my bed that I would have walked right past with you. He is sad-eyed and needs my flimsy paper wrists to support him. I pour every late night with you into him, until he says, ‘I love you, I love you’ and I say, ‘Shh, you’ll ruin the fun.’ I do what it takes to forget you, and at the end, have more bruises than the ones I started with, but I can finally look at a sunset and not feel anything at all. I Practice Death To Forget You | Lora Mathis  (via soggypoetry)

(Source: lora-mathis, via lora-mathis)



Tuesday with 23,943 notes
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Vincente Grondona