juansendizon (via dehanginggarden)

I hate that so many women have to go through this.

Jm Storm (via wordsnquotes)

beingjustlittlered, writing prompt #62: list 10 pieces of advice you’d give yourself (via wnq-writers)

Warrior! ❤️ This Black Girl was Magic #BlackExcellence

Charles Bukowski, Love is a Dog from Hell (via books-n-quotes)

Here to help y'all gorgeous children

the illusion that one’s life is set in the 60s Paris, with intermittent existential crises, and lack of understanding own emotions about surrounding people. night sleeps are troubled by fading images of museums on a backdrop of voices reciting fragments of poems. clothes are usually of black or dark navy colour to prevent unwanted attention. usually a winged eyeliner is worn to conceal a night-long crying bout. a compulsive desire to be alone is present on weekends. writing and reading can be relieving factors. aggravation happens on rainy days, caffeine overdose, and remembrance of past lovers.

Mount Saint Helens National Volcanic Monument by Mark Wetherington

If you own a cat you know the feeling

Talk to yo child like an icon 2017

@sexual-texts (via sexual-texts)

So I ask her about love and she tells me about the bits of us that we give away. You’ll never get them back. When you’re this empty you’ll try anything to cover up the void. So I ask her about her favorite color and if it has anything to do with passion. We feel more pain than we’d care to mention– so we draw, paint and write just to have a little more self-expression. So I ask her if she hands away so much of herself, who is she by the time it’s all over? You don’t really know someone until they walk away. You don’t really love someone until it’s too late. You don’t know a damn thing until it’s all said and done. So I ask about her smile. Are you happy when we’re talking? Do you enjoy this as much as I do? So I ask if she does late afternoon runs to run from herself or to find something. Do you chase ghosts too? Inside those halls, you’re trapped in photographs. Inside that soul, you’ve burnt the whole house down. Inside that heart, you’re still looking for love. So I ask about us and if she sees hope. She points to the smile that they used to love. She points to the scars and sketches a constellation of promises on my skin. So I ask if she’s a sucker for love poems and honesty. So I ask if she’s ever been hurt before. What do you do when it’s just you? Does the anxiety rip you inside out? You can write until you’re all out of words. You can love until your heart is a grain of sand. You can be angry until your fist bruises the night. So I ask her about love and if it’s ever worth it. Do you really see us together? Isn’t it weird? Two strangers. Before meeting– you didn’t exist to one another. Now? You’re routine. Now? You choose to stay. I can ask if she really means it all. I can ask if she believes me. I’m always in my head picking myself apart. I’m always in my heart sorting out feelings. The complexity of something as simple as saying I love you to someone bothers everyone who stays up really fucking late. We all have a past that won’t sleep. We all have a present worth living. The future? I don’t know if it holds us, but I’m here until the last page.