(via langleav)

(via langleav)

His eyes are like a lighthouse, the way they flash with danger. His smile is sad, as though he has seen too many shipwrecks. And his heart is broken, like a wild wave carelessly tossed against the jagged rocks.

Lang Leav (via langleav)

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)

this is so brilliant

(via hellotitsy)

(via langleav)

I like cancelled plans. And empty bookstores. I like rainy days and thunderstorms. And quiet coffee shops. I like messy beds and over-worn pajamas. Most of all, I like the small joys that a simple life brings.

— note to self (via bl-ossomed)

(Source: c0ntemplations, via langleav)

beetsbearsbattlestargalactica:

Ideal aesthetic


Me.

beetsbearsbattlestargalactica:

Ideal aesthetic

Me.

(Source: etiopy, via langleav)

You have to understand when it hurt to love her, it hurt the way the light hurts your eyes in the middle of the night, but I had to see.

— Andrea Gibson (via wordsthat-speak)

(via langleav)

tsktsks:

i don’t want you to leave

tsktsks:

i don’t want you to leave

(Source: teefz, via langleav)

I won’t do you the dishonour of writing you in something that stains forever. I’ll follow your winding heart—its changing patterns—its constant going and un-going. I will write you in lead, in chalk, in breathy sighs.

— Salma Deera, Writing (via writingwillows)

(via langleav)

I hated knowing what I wanted and knowing what was right and knowing they weren’t the same thing.

— Maggie Stiefvater, Forever (via simply-quotes)

(via langleav)

100wordstories:

We’re all just looking for shelter.  We need to get out of the rain, find a canopy that protects us. We’ll find some thin covering and pretend it’s not full of holes that let in the cold we’re trying to outdistance. We take what we can get, we make ourselves believe it’s better than what it is because the search for a safe place wore us out to the point where we no longer care if it lets in the rain, as long as it doesn’t let all of it in. We’re soaked and cold and we’ll insist we’re ok. 

100wordstories:

We’re all just looking for shelter.  We need to get out of the rain, find a canopy that protects us. We’ll find some thin covering and pretend it’s not full of holes that let in the cold we’re trying to outdistance. We take what we can get, we make ourselves believe it’s better than what it is because the search for a safe place wore us out to the point where we no longer care if it lets in the rain, as long as it doesn’t let all of it in. We’re soaked and cold and we’ll insist we’re ok. 

100wordstories:

There comes an end. When the need to release is gone, when the demons have been exorcised, when the locks have been picked and the doors reopened. 
There comes a time when the purging is over and the house is clean, the garbage hauled away to a landfill where it will burn like a pyre. You will watch the flames, watch everything turn to ash and when it’s done, when the last smoldering ember turns from red to lifeless gray, you will rejoice.
The stories are over. They’ve all been told.  
There’s an ending:
And she lived happily ever after.

100wordstories:

There comes an end. When the need to release is gone, when the demons have been exorcised, when the locks have been picked and the doors reopened. 

There comes a time when the purging is over and the house is clean, the garbage hauled away to a landfill where it will burn like a pyre. You will watch the flames, watch everything turn to ash and when it’s done, when the last smoldering ember turns from red to lifeless gray, you will rejoice.

The stories are over. They’ve all been told.  

There’s an ending:

And she lived happily ever after.




I think about this a lot. How everyone is having a very unique earthly experience. Everything is just you and projections of your perception. Nothing really exists. We are all one, just having different trips

I think about this a lot. How everyone is having a very unique earthly experience. Everything is just you and projections of your perception. Nothing really exists. We are all one, just having different trips

(Source: calebostgaard, via 048)

IT’S ALMOST AUTUMN.

IT’S ALMOST AUTUMN.

(Source: theautumnequinox, via nycoriginal)

se17enteen:

untitled by SamAlive on Flickr.

se17enteen:

untitled by SamAlive on Flickr.

(via se17enteen)