there’s something charming, sometimes, about a bed that sits on the floor. i don’t know why, and i certainly don’t think that it’s inherently telling. but it often gives the impression that maybe a person doesn’t have their shit completely together. i like that. 
unhurts:

x

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.


-It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)

(via exxtuhhsee)



Some days you will feel dirty, some weeks you’ll remember just how hard it is to breathe in public. Like your heartbeat is climbing to the attic of your throat only to suicide itself on the pavement, but know this; the person who did this to you is broken, not you.

-Sierra Demulder  (via the-healing-nest)

(via aloevaera)



untitled-1991:

henri matisse “claude” 1946  and “claudie”1949
kushandwizdom:

Good Vibes HERE
vvni:

Johnny (street poet)
by Robert Knapman 
bitchday-cake:

 ☽ paler than the cast of twilight ☾
Everyone, at some point in their lives, wakes up in the middle of the night with the feeling that they are all alone in the world, and that nobody loves them now and that nobody will ever love them, and that they will never have a decent night’s sleep again and will spend their lives wandering blearily around a loveless landscape, hoping desperately that their circumstances will improve, but suspecting, in their heart of hearts, that they will remain unloved forever. The best thing to do in these circumstances is to wake somebody else up, so that they can feel this way, too.

-Lemony Snicket (via perfect)

(Source: carolblackman, via notversacedrug)



bitterweeping:

my bae