My eyelids are heavy,
but my thoughts are heavier.
Unknown (via insanity-and-vanity)
Whenever I speak with you, I end up dying more, a little more
Frida Kahlo (to Diego Rivera)
People are so vulnerable at night. They’re willing to spill out their souls to anyone willing to listen. They have desires to do things that never cross their mind when the sun is in the sky.
(via psych-facts)

1. This town, with its bleeding jaw, gutted my childhood. I buried my grandfather last summer in a citrus field, and I have not been able to eat oranges since. I still remember his cloudy cataracts, his gentle hands. He told me there was beauty in being untouchable – this is why I lock the doors.

2. Some love is soft, I know, but not this kind – this kind slams drawers and ignores the screaming. Your mouth was like formaldehyde. Your hands were silver scalpels, were ragged teeth. Do not touch me with your liar’s bones. I hope she tastes the poison you keep tucked under your tongue for the girls you want to break. I hope that, when she leaves you, you have no one to pick up the pieces. I hope you rot in this town.

3. I spent sixteen tangerine winters in this city like split knuckles, like an open wound, and I can still taste the burning. I want to eat Manhattan and climb through its throat to Chicago. I want to touch the very ground God walked upon. When asked what I want for Christmas, I say miles, miles, miles.

4. I keep breaking bones just to get back up. The band aids on my knuckles are from punching walls and slashing tires. They never have the chance to heal. I do not know what I look like without violence on my palms.

5. This town – bleeding jaw, split belly. Town like childhood, town like funeral bells. Town like angels dying. Town like your eyes, bruised and blackened. You were not gentle with my heart, so I hope that you rot in this gutted city, with your mouth clasped to hers. I hope she sucks out your soul: I want you broken. I burnt down your heart long before she loved you – you are a monument, yes. But you are not beautiful, your ribs are a ruin, and when you kiss, it tastes like smoke. This is why I left you. This is why I lock the doors.

5 Reasons I Lock the Doors | d.a.s  (via jane-gallagher)

When someone is keen on leaving your shores, you have every right to push them into the sea.
This Night

I feel like a tree. Strong. Old. A wide trunk. Some of my leaves have fallen and withered away, some are still attached to the branches - crumbling, fading and discolored from the sun; But then there are those few sprouting anew - a green of hope. I feel like a tree would feel in April ( which I am sure it does). They say april showers bring may flowers. I will believe that. I will bear flowers of the Himalayan kind- beautiful, remedial, fragrant, life giving, enduring, wild. My roots are still strong at 24. This tree will grow.

There is a chasm between me and the world outside of me. A gap so wide my feelings can’t cross it. By the time my screams reach the other side, they have dwindled into groans.
Isaac Marion Warm Bodies (via heyteenbookshey)


"I’d much rather be a woman than a man" (Gilda Radner)