"Rather than love, than money, than fame, give me truth."-Henry David Thoreau
Just fuck it – right? Enough, that’s it. You’ll still go on – well, for a bit. Another day of utter shit. And then there were none…
— Moritz Stiefel; Spring Awakening
I think he’s very lonely. Lonelier than he lets on. Maybe lonelier than he even realizes.
— The Royal Tenenbaums. (via theburnthatkeepseverything)
He says ‘I don’t get it, why are you still a virgin at 24?’
He says ‘I don’t believe you, I’ve seen you walk, virgins don’t walk like that’
He says, ‘That ain’t natural, people are supposed to fuck.’
He asks ‘Why though? No offence though.’
I ask ‘When was your first time?’
He says ‘I was 12’
He says ‘I know what you’re thinking, that’s too young.’
I look at his knuckles, he has two good hands.
He says ‘She was older than me.’
I ask ‘How old?’
And he says ‘It’s better that the girl is older, that’s how I learnt all things I know’
He licks his lips.
I ask again ‘How old?’
He says ‘I could use one finger to make you sob’
I think of my brother in prison and I can’t remember his face.
I ask again ‘How old?’
He says ‘Boys become men in the laps of women, you know?’
I think of my mothers faced lined with her bad choices in men.
He says ‘If you were mine you wouldn’t get away with this shit, I’d eat you for hours, I’d gut you like fruit.’
I think of my cousins circumcision, how she feels like a mermaid, not human from the waist down.
He says ‘I’d look after you, you know?’
I laugh, I ask for the last time ‘How old?’
He says ‘34.’
He says ‘She was beautiful though and I know what you’re thinking but it’s not like that, I’m a man, I’m a man, I’m a man. No one could ever hurt me’.
— Warsan Shire, Crude Conversations With Boys Who Fake Laughter Often (via didyoueatallthisacid)
I really thought the society I was a part of was ridiculous and it was full of shit and everyone was awful, and yet I wanted to fit in.
— Bret Easton Ellis (via somecontentunderpressure)
I don’t let anyone touch me,” I finally said.
Why not? Because I was tired of men. Hanging in doorways, standing too close, their smell of beer or fifteen-year-old whiskey. Men who didn’t come to the emergency room with you, men who left on Christmas Eve. Men who slammed the security gates, who made you love them then changed their minds. Forests of boys, their ragged shrubs full of eyes following you, grabbing your breasts, waving their money, eyes already knocking you down, taking what they felt was theirs. (…) It was a play and I knew how it ended, I didn’t want to audition for any of the roles. It was no game, no casual thrill. It was three-bullet Russian roulette.
— White Oleander, Janet Fitch (via bodylonging)
It feels like I’ve lost you all over again.
I want so much that is not here and do not know where to go.
— – Charles Bukowski (via loveandgraceareenough)
I’m so fucking sick of saying I’m sorry when I’m the one collapsed on the ground.
— (via streetcarly)
i. when they ask where it hurts, you go home
and knock on your bones and they sound
so hollow, you will whisper that it hurts
ii. your lips will taste like fireball whiskey
and the night will be so wild you cannot tame
your darkness and when they ask you why you
are trying to drown memories or maybe just
yourself, laugh like a maniac, do not tell them you
are just trying to fill an emptiness so threatening
it has started to smell like dead bodies, do not say
you are just done with faking being happy every day
every day every single goddamn day
iii. when you kiss people you don’t care about
and claw your way out of their covers
or when you stay home from parties and shut yourself
behind thick doors and lose every number
or however you choose to lay down your spine as dynamite
so you can selfdestruct socially
when they ask you why you’re doing this to them say you’re
just having a bad day don’t tell them you’re not good enough
to be with them don’t say that people make you sad don’t say
you think each person you meet secretly hates you
don’t say you’re sick of people everyone
every one every single person
iv. four is the number of death when they ask why you
smell of it
and why your smile doesn’t actually look right
on your lips
say you’re tired
don’t tell them you’re tired of everything every leaf every
atom every fucking sad poem every stupid shitty thing on this
too-loud planet with shitty people and shitty poets and shitty
friends and shitty feelings just seriously
v. when they ask you what’s the matter
lock the answers behind your broken teeth, swallow the key,
feel it hit your stomach while you rip lies out of yourself,
take your bloody fingers, hide them, maybe wipe them off
on the corners of your shirt, do not tell them you are the ice of
just show them the best impression of happy you can manage
I’ve written too many metaphors about you breaking my bones and burning my veins. But how else can I describe the way you destroyed me from the inside out?
— Every Word Always Comes Back to You (via mutilatedmemories)
How weird it is to think I used to not know of your existence. I somehow lived my life without ever knowing you were a person. Once we met though, god I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since. It’s hard to imagine I used to be able to live my life without you consuming my head with thoughts.
— kmr (disastrous-heartache)