“Things that break:
this is how
this is how
the sun blossoms.
this is how we
make it home.
this is how we
learn to love.”
— Pavana पवन (via thatkindofwoman)
(Source: maza-dohta, via songbirdsweresinging)
9:58 pm • 7 October 2014 • 4,901 notes
- You are stronger than you realise.
- You are crueller than you realise.
- The smallest words will break your heart.
- You will change. You’re not the same person you were three years ago. You’re not even the same person you were three minutes ago and that’s okay. Especially if you don’t like the person you were three minutes ago.
- People come and go. Some are cigarette breaks, others are forest fires.
- You won’t like your name until you hear someone say it in their sleep.
- You’ll forget your email password but ten years from now you’ll still remember the number of steps up to his flat.
- You don’t have to open the curtains if you don’t want to.
- Never stop yourself texting someone. If you love them at 4 a.m., tell them. If you still love them at 9.30 a.m., tell them again.
- Make sure you have a safe place. Whether it’s the kitchen floor or the Travel section of a bookshop, just make sure you have a safe place.
- You will be scared of all kinds of things, of spiders and clowns and eating alone, but your biggest fear will be that people will see you the way you see yourself.
- Sometimes, looking at someone will be like looking into the sun. Sometimes someone will look at you like you are the sun. Wait for it.
- You will learn how to sleep alone, how to avoid the cold corners but still fill a bed.
- Always be friends with the broken people. They know how to survive.
- You can love someone and hate them, all at once. You can miss them so much you ache but still ignore your phone when they call.
- You are good at something, whether it’s making someone laugh or remembering their birthday. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that these things don’t matter.
- You will always be hungry for love. Always. Even when someone is asleep next to you you’ll envy the pillow touching their cheek and the sheet hiding their skin.
- Loneliness is nothing to do with how many people are around you but how many of them understand you.
- People say I love you all the time. Even when they say, ‘Why didn’t you call me back?’ or ‘He’s an asshole.’ Make sure you’re listening.
- You will be okay.
- You will be okay.
— 21 things my father never told me (via forlornes)
(Source: ohthativy, via addisonsmontgomery)
8:56 pm • 5 October 2014 • 332,583 notes
“I’m getting bad again but I’m too tired to care.”
— (via girlvirgo)
8:36 pm • 21 September 2014 • 159,048 notes
“How was your day?”
“Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe”
“How are you?”
“I hope you’re feeling better”
“Have a good day today!”
“I miss you”
“Can you come over?”
“Can I come over?”
“Can I see you?”
“Can I call you?”
“Want something to drink?”
“Watch your step”
“Let’s watch a movie”
“What are you up to?”
“How is your day so far?”
“It will be okay”
“I’m here for you”
“Do you need anything?”
“Are you hungry?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice”
“You just made my day”
You don’t have to hear “I Love You” to know that someone does. Listen carefully. People speak from the heart more often than you think.
— (via floriental)
(Source: blocklava, via floriental)
10:34 pm • 16 September 2014 • 711,471 notes
“we have now been accounted for
and it is written on our empty graves
that After everything still I stayed.
And I mean it.
I stayed. I stayed. I stayed.”
— Buddy Wakefield, “Self-Portrait” (via malglories)
(Source: howtoleavetheozarks, via contramonte)
8:32 pm • 13 September 2014 • 3,909 notes
Instead of waiting in her tower, Rapunzel slices off her long, golden hair with a carving knife, and then uses it to climb down to freedom.
Just as she’s about to take the poison apple, Snow White sees the familiar wicked glow in the old lady’s eyes, and slashes the evil queen’s throat with a pair of sewing scissors.
Cinderella refuses everything but the glass slippers from her fairy godmother, crushes her stepmother’s windpipe under her heel, and the Prince falls madly in love with the mysterious girl who dons rags and blood-stained slippers.
Persephone goes adventuring with weapons hidden under her dress.
Persephone climbs into the gaping chasm.
Or, Persephone uses her hands to carve a hole down to hell.
In none of these versions is Persephone’s body violated unless she asks Hades to hold her down with his horse-whips.
Not once does she hold out on eating the pomegranate, instead biting into it eagerly and relishing the juice running down her chin, staining it red.
In some of the stories, Hades never appears and Persephone rules the underworld with a crown of her own making.
In all of them, it is widely known that the name Persephone means Bringer of Destruction.
Red Riding Hood marches from her grandmother’s house with a bloody wolf pelt.
Medusa rights the wrongs that have been done to her.
Eurydice breaks every muscle in her arms climbing out of the land of the dead.
Girls are allowed to think dark thoughts, and be dark things.
Instead of the dragon, it’s the princess with claws and fiery breath
who smashes her way from the confines of her castle
and swallows men whole.
— 'Reinventing Rescuing,' theappleppielifestyle. (via ladysifs)
(Source: theappleppielifestyle, via mandalu-fall)
7:56 pm • 12 September 2014 • 192,059 notes
“Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened every day and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.”
— Kalyn RoseAnne, (x)
(Source: quotethat, via decemburrsuns-deactivated201409)
9:45 pm • 11 September 2014 • 7,332 notes
These girls aren’t wounded so much as post-wounded, and I see their sisters everywhere. They’re over it. I am not a melodramatic person. God help the woman who is. What I’ll call “post-wounded” isn’t a shift in deep feeling (we understand these women still hurt) but a shift away from wounded affect: These women are aware that “woundedness” is overdone and overrated. They are wary of melodrama, so they stay numb or clever instead. Post-wounded women make jokes about being wounded or get impatient with women who hurt too much. The post-wounded woman conducts herself as if preempting certain accusations: Don’t cry too loud; don’t play victim. Don’t ask for pain meds you don’t need; don’t give those doctors another reason to doubt. Post-wounded women fuck men who don’t love them and then they feel mildly sad about it, or just blasé about it; they refuse to hurt about it or to admit they hurt about it—or else they are endlessly self-aware about it, if they do allow themselves this hurting.
The post-wounded posture is claustrophobic: jadedness, aching gone implicit, sarcasm quick on the heels of anything that might look like self-pity. I see it in female writers and their female narrators, troves of stories about vaguely dissatisfied women who no longer fully own their feelings. Pain is everywhere and nowhere. Post-wounded women know that postures of pain play into limited and outmoded conceptions of womanhood. Their hurt has a new native language spoken in several dialects: sarcastic, jaded, opaque; cool and clever. They guard against those moments when melodrama or self-pity might split their careful seams of intellect, expose the shame of self-absorption without self-awareness.
— Leslie Jamison, “Grand Unified Theory of Female Pain” (via et—cetera)
10:48 pm • 7 September 2014 • 3,171 notes
“You can find me on the moon waxing and waning. My heart full of petals, every single one begging ‘Love me, love me, love me. Whoever I am. Whoever I become.’”
— Andrea Gibson (via abattoirr)
(Source: wethinkwedream, via mandalu-fall)
8:45 pm • 7 September 2014 • 1,590 notes
“My heart didn’t break into a thousand pieces after he left. Instead, I realized all the things he didn’t do. He didn’t want to hear my stories. He didn’t ask me questions. He didn’t hug me out of the blue to make me feel good. His hugs were always a preamble to something else, and after he was gone, I wondered if he ever knew me at all.”
— Diane Les Becquets (via fleurlungs)
(Source: wordsthat-speak, via absentions)
8:44 pm • 7 September 2014 • 107,609 notes