I’m happy for you. I miss you.

you’re good to me. I want to thank you.

sometimes I miss you so much, it’s like a big hole in my life.

smoke a cigarette, it’ll go away.

Charles Bukowski, “2:07 AM” (via catasterismes)

(Source: lostintimacy)

(Reblogged from supaspicy)
(Reblogged from wander-luzt)
Played 69,065 times

(Source: vves)

(Reblogged from dorkivore)
blvckgoldenn:


That one friend that acts out when boys are around

blvckgoldenn:

That one friend that acts out when boys are around

(Reblogged from philipacarebear)
(Reblogged from ellochelseab)
tony perry + tattoos

(Source: jackalltimelow)

(Reblogged from nonelikerae)

jill-wood:

Don’t Forget To Say I Love You

(Reblogged from ellochelseab)

struggling tonight

Some women are
lost in the fire.
Some women are
built from it.
(Reblogged from hippiesandlovers)

neongenesisevangelistchurch:

WEARING A NEW PAIR OF SKINNY JEANS FOR THE FIRST TIME

image

(Reblogged from philipacarebear)

buzzfeed:

Is it possible to overdose on adorable baby animal GIFs?

(Source: BuzzFeed)

(Reblogged from ashleyashole)
I would rather share one lifetime with you than face all the ages of this world alone.
Arwen, The Fellowship of the Ring (via ladyclairebear360)
(Reblogged from wander-luzt)

rebagled:

*aggressively doesn’t know*

(Source: dveon)

(Reblogged from stay-ocean-minded)

A boy sprawled next to me on the bus, elbows out, knee pointing sharp into my thigh.
He frowned at me when I uncrossed my legs, unfolded my hands
and splayed out like boys are taught to: all big, loose limbs.
I made sure to jab him in the side with my pretty little sharp purse.
At first he opened his mouth like I expected him to, but instead of speaking up he sat there, quiet, and took it for the whole bus ride.
Like a girl.

Once, a boy said my anger was cute, and he laughed,
and I remember thinking that I should sit there and take it,
because it isn’t ladylike to cause a scene and girls aren’t supposed to raise their voices.
But then he laughed again and all I saw
was my pretty little sharp nails digging into his cheek
before drawing back and making a horribly unladylike fist.
(my teacher informed me later that there is no ladylike way of making a fist.)

When we were both in the principal’s office twenty minutes later
him with a bloody mouth and cheek, me with skinned knuckles,
I tried to explain in words that I didn’t have yet
that I was tired of having my emotions not taken seriously
just because I’m a girl.

Girls are taught: be small, so boys can be big.
Don’t take up any more space than absolutely necessary.
Be small and smooth with soft edges
and hold in the howling when they touch you and it hurts:
the sandpaper scrape of their body hair that we would be shamed for having,
the greedy hands that press too hard and too often take without asking permission.

Girls are taught: be quiet and unimposing and oh so small
when they heckle you with their big voices from the window of a car,
because it’s rude to scream curse words back at them, and they’d just laugh anyway.
We’re taught to pin on smiles for the boys who jeer at us on the street
who see us as convenient bodies instead of people.

Girls are taught: hush, be hairless and small and soft,
so we sit there and take it and hold in the howling,
pretend to be obedient lapdogs instead of the wolves we are.
We pin pretty little sharp smiles on our faces instead of opening our mouths,
because if we do we get accused of silly women emotions
blowing everything out of proportion with our PMS, we get
condescending pet names and not-so-discreet eyerolls.

Once, I got told I punched like a girl.
I told him, Good. I hope my pretty little sharp rings leave scars.

'My Perfume Doubles As Mace,' theappleppielifestyle. (via queenofeden)

(Source: theappleppielifestyle)

(Reblogged from philipacarebear)

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 she 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)
(Reblogged from cleanbodyfreshstart)