i am stones where used to be cities
and if you breathe too closely to me
you can still smell burning, i am
a shell constructed from
music lyrics and poems and
i don’t let people in

but you,
you are the kind
who sees
galaxies in your coffee
where others just see
sugar and cream
and you’re the one who says
“go on, i’m listening” even when
i’ve already realized how boring the story is
that i’m telling
and you’re the one who makes sure i got home
safe and that i’m eating well and getting out of bed

i mean you must be
an archaeologist
because where others saw ruin
and black nights and
spite

you looked into my eyes
and whispered
“you’re so full
of life.”

"He always said I didn’t love him. I do. I feel like I’ve been breathing in liquid poison. My head is so fuzzy, dizzy, and throbbing. My heart feels like its going to crumble apart with each beat." /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via thissideofthefence)

We are used to ignoring our own bodies. “These carrots are too spicy” we complained as a child, only to be told no, they were sweet, that the music wasn’t too loud, nobody can hear lights, what you are experiencing is invalid. We heard: you are invalid. You do not experience the world the same way as everyone else, and therefore, your experience is wrong. You learn to ignore the ever-present pain because nothing can be done about it, but then you have a kidney infection and others get mad at you for not noticing sooner. But why should you trust your body when it is always wrong?

Everything will fall into place when it needs to. You just need to get up every morning and do your part of the job, do something every day that will get you closer to your dream, and eventually, life will take you there if you let it.

Notes from Tin Pan Alley (via snakehair)

(via dirtyflowerchild)

The brain may take advice, but not the heart, and love, having no geography, knows no boundaries: weight and sink it deep, no matter, it will rise and find the surface: and why not? Any love is natural and beautiful that lies within a person’s nature; only hypocrites would hold a man responsible for what he loves, emotional illiterates and those of righteous envy, who, in their agitated concern, mistake so frequently the arrow pointing to heaven for the one that leads to hell.

Truman Capote (via purplebuddhaproject)

(via purplebuddhaproject)

Go to a coffee shop. Sit by the bar with the glass windows and look out. Look at all the people running to catch a train. All the girls with one too many shopping bags. All the couples too in love to care. Then you’ll see it — a bit of yourself in everyone. And somehow, sitting alone in a coffee shop had never felt so good.

Unknown  (via theantiquated)

(via 8-moons-of-optimism)

I was 19 when I finally stopped opening the door for unrequited love. I was 20 when I first learned that courage tasted like bitter wine and metal. Like blood and honey. When I told you I loved you, I screamed it. I let it rip its way out of my throat, and it felt so good that I cried. The other day, you walked by me with your friends and I could feel the pity in your stare. Don’t you do that. Don’t you look at what I had for you and call it weak. Not when you were the one afraid of it. I stood there with my hands open, my mouth bruised tender with supplication. Don’t you dare treat me like a victim of my own emotions, like being moved to my knees by love was a mistake that I regret. I will go to my grave with the memory of the bravery in my bones. I am not ashamed of any of it. Not the closed door in my face or the static silence of my phone for weeks after. I was not afraid. I am still not afraid. I will never be afraid again. Bring in the beasts with teeth like tree branches. Bring in all the men who will never love me. Bring in the monsters with faces carved out of stone. I am not afraid. They can eat me alive. I am not afraid. I will cut my way out of their bellies. I am not afraid. Never again.