“I craved him constantly, so deeply it was a physical ache.”
— Unknown (via bl-ossomed)
// ANTICHRIST //
SZIGET, 2014.Ok Bye
Holy
Yes yes yes
“i used to seek you out in a crowd, just to hear your voice. see your face.
now i avoid you. your laughter brings me anxiety.
probably because i’m no longer laughing too.”
— blowthecandlesoutt (via wordsnquotes)
My old cats, Tom and Little, always slept together in a guitar case. They both lived for seventeen years and my family is still convinced that they were in love. Little was perfectly healthy when Tom died, but a week after his death she stopped eating and would hide behind couches and in corners all day. Within a month, she passed away too. They are buried side by side in our garden.
“
i. I miss you. Each day that you’re gone feels like a bullet in my chest. I’ve spent too many nights clawing open the wound that you left, now I’m sure it’s never going to heal.
ii. I’m sorry for pushing you away. Each day that you’re gone feels like I’ve lived and died a thousand times. Every star screams out for you, to come back, to come home.
iii. The infection in my heart is spreading. Each day that you’re gone feels like my bones are splintering. Ten thousand fragments entering my bloodstream, ripping my veins open from the inside out.
iv. I’ve spent the last week scratching open my throat. Each day that your gone feels like my skin is cracking open. The words that have died in my mouth are trying to shatter my teeth and tear open my lips, just to reach you again.
v. The sun doesn’t seem to want to rise today. Each day that you’ve been gone hurts more than the next. The moon doesn’t want to stay in the sky, it wants to rip a hole in space and time and slip away from reality. It would seem I do as well.
”— 4-00am-thought
(via wordsnquotes)
“I will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible, and when I leave you will finally understand why storms are named after people.”
—
this is paraphrased from:
“Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
Women like me will love you from a distance
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.”
Katrina, M.K
(via cynicallys)