(Source: nightydrunk, via leprintemps)
My Abuser, Ever the Optimist, Tells Me He Does Not Want to Speak About the Past, Only the Future
Tonight, I will take the train home from work.
I will walk up the stairs to my apartment,
through the door he pinned me against
as I learned the sound of my own voice
begging.
I will set my bag down on a chair in the living room.
The same chair where he sat, quietly telling me
that if I ever left him, he would mourn
with a bullet and a drive into the ink star night,
dead for weeks
before even his mother knew.
(This was a lie, of course, but a lie that keeps my phone on,
keeps an obituary loaded behind my teeth, he was
a forest of hard truths and somedays,
I would say, to protect the living)
I will walk through the kitchen where he once
promised me children. Promised me a dream
and gave me a nightmare. Then a diamond
to apologize for the nightmare.
Slipping into the shower (Where once, I hid
as he pounded his fist against my door,
a lion’s roaring heartbeat) I will whisper to myself
I don’t have to lie to protect you
anymore, and I don’t owe you
my forgiveness.
God, what a short life the bullet has
compared to the wound.
God, what I would give
to leave the past behind
and have it stay there.
(Source: clementinevonradics, via clementinevonradics)
(Source: daddyslittleflame, via nofatnowhip)
(Source: jessicamaccormackrmack, via lovetoburn)
"One day you’re 19 and all you know is sadness and longing. It claws you up from the inside and the words are falling out of you faster than you can write.
The next day you’re 24 and you don’t remember how to get back there.
You look in the mirror at the same person but you have a dog and a boyfriend and a mortgage and the longing this time is to go back.
To go back to 6pm bottles of wine and scratching at your face and your legs and your stomach at disgust and pain as your chest cracks wide open and the words that come form a comfort blanket around you.
You’re 24 and alive in a half life of craving the old part of you that festers and grows and creates.
Its true what you used to say:
When you’re with me, you’re killing me. When you’re not, I’m dying."
(Source: thesartorialist.com, via blua)
"
I just realised we will probably never be friends
And for the longest time,
You were my best friend.
At one point, you couldn’t imagine us not being friends.
I’m sure of that.
I could even tell you when it changed.
Now I’m just a drop in one of the many oceans you will see
And I’m so proud of you.
So proud of you I could tear the skin off your shoulders as I hug you.
I’m So Proud Of You It Makes My Chest Cave In
"But some people can’t tell where it hurts. They can’t calm down. They can’t ever stop howling."
Margaret Atwood
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(Source: HpLyrikz.com, via tinyinkstainedbird)
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"Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possible have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possible work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, than you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint."
http://awkward-at-parties.blogspot.de/2013/04/yellow-paint.html?m=1 (via latenz)
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(Source: liebeueberall, via boniverrs)