21 years.


In order to protect myself,
I reconstructed my world.
I painted my life in hues of
metaphors and similes.
That way, nothing would
be real anymore.

Now, I bleed in ink,
my knees buckle under
the weight of similes,
I choke on subtext,
and my native tongue
is metaphors.

You see,
his eyes were no longer blue,
but rather the icy water that I drowned in.
his embrace was no longer comforting,
but rather a blanket that I encased myself in,
blocking out the rest of the world.

He was no longer a person,
but rather an idealization,
stitched together with
metaphors and similes.

Just like the rest of my world,
he was no longer real.

I hoped that, in turn,
the pain he caused would
no longer be real, too.

I was wrong.

"The Sadness of a Writer" (201/365) by (DS)

(via little-miss-tragedy)


You will stay up on your rooftop until sunlight peels away the husk of the moon,
chainsmoking cigarettes and reading Baudelaire, and
you will learn that you only ever want to fall in love with someone
who will stay up to watch the sun rise with you.

You will fall in love with train rides, and sooner or later you will
realize that nowhere seems like home anymore.

A woman will kiss you and you’ll think her lips are two petals
rubbing against your mouth.

You will not tell anyone that you liked it.
It’s okay.
It is beautiful to love humans in a world where love is a metaphor for lust.

You can leave if you want, with only your skin as a carry-on.

All you need is a twenty in your pocket and a bus ticket.
All you need is someone on the other end of the map, thinking about the supple
curves of your body, to guide you to a home that stretches out for miles
and miles on end.

You will lie to everyone you love.
They will love you anyways.

One day you’ll wake up and realize that you are too big for your own skin.

Don’t be afraid.

Your body is a house where the shutters blow in and out
against the windowpane.

You are a hurricane-prone area.
The glass will break through often.

But it’s okay. I promise.

a stranger once told you that the breeze
here is something worth writing poems about.

"Here’s what our parents never taught us" - Shinji Moon
"No, it is not that I have trusted too little: my mistake was to trust too much. I am not prepared to, cannot afford to, trust again."
Irvin D. Yalom, from When Nietzsche Wept  (via unmaiden)

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via leventricule)

"i’m not interested in being easy on the eyes
i want them to flinch, think twice before they reach out their callous hands to bruise.
i want to be a constant reminder to men that not everything is theirs for the taking."

fabiola - for girls who aren’t interested in being easy on the eyes (via roserosetyler)


(via queeringfeministreality)

(via leventricule)

"I am learning
to love myself
It took me years
and heart break
to realize
I am all I have."

Michelle K.

Everything you love is here

(via lovequotesrus)

(via leventricule)

"Decide you want it more than you are afraid of it."
Bill Cosby (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

(via leventricule)

"To define is to limit."
Oscar Wilde (via burninggravity)
"Understanding that people are always a worse version of who they want to be is a way of loving them."
Spencer Madsen, from You Can Make Anything Sad (via burninggravity)

(Source: mcnallyjackson, via burninggravity)

"Compassion hurts. When you feel connected to everything, you also feel responsible for everything. And you cannot turn away. Your destiny is bound with the destinies of others. You must either learn to carry the Universe or be crushed by it. You must grow strong enough to love the world, yet empty enough to sit down at the same table with its worst horrors."

 Andrew Boyd 

so true. empathy, compassion - can feel so good and so awful in equal parts.

(via burninggravity)

(Source: wordsthat-speak, via burninggravity)