We think we’re made of numbers. percentages on tests, pounds on a scale, likes on a photo, price tags on clothes. but we’re not. we are made of love and happiness and they way we laugh. we’re made of good memories and late nights and past-curfews. we have more...
Even when I detach, I care. You can be separate from a thing and still care about it. If I wanted to detach completely, I would move my body away. I would stop the conversation midsentence. I would leave the bed. Instead, I hover over it for a second. I glance off in another...
I imagine you working on me as an algebra problem, reducing me to fractions, crossing out common denominators, until there’s nothing left on the page but a line that says x = whatever it is that is wrong with me.
Until you heal the wounds of your past, you are going to bleed. You can bandage the bleeding with food, with alcohol, with drugs, with work, with cigarettes, with sex; But eventually, it will all ooze through and stain your life. You must find the strength to open the wounds...
Sometimes I feel like I'm not... solid. I'm hollow. There's nothing behind my eyes. I'm a negative of a person. It's as if I never - -I never thought anything. I never wrote anything. I never felt anything. All I want is blackness. Blackness and silence.
I'm almost never attracted to people purely on a physical level. I’m really attracted to people with crazy minds that they are a little psychotic and twisted, and people who feel new, like they have dropped of planet Xenon and landed in my life. ~Unknown
there is nothing else but the
yearning to be close to the other. The presence that is felt
through a hand held, a voice heard, or a smile seen.
Souls do not have calendars or clocks, nor do they understand
the notion of time or distance. They only know it feels right to
I’m someone who's mostly dead inside but still has a little hope for something extraordinary, which, as I said, is the worst breed of human, because it means I know everything is bullshit, but that I secretly hope for the day when it might not be. - Nick Miller
you are going to bleed.
You can bandage the bleeding with food, with alcohol, with drugs, with work, with cigarettes, with sex; but eventually, it will all ooze through and stain your life.
You must find the strength to open the wounds, stick your hands inside, pull out the...
"You know I'm old in some ways........in others........well I'm just a little girl. I like sunshine and pretty things and cheerfulness.........and I dread responsibility."
This side of paradise by F. Scot Fitzgerald
I can only offer you my heart
and the secrets recorded on my skin.
Let them find us holding hands
and in crowded airports
celebrating a life composed of stolen moments
because that is where love is born.
~ Gibson Grand
“What kills love? Only this: Neglect. Not to see you when you stand before me. Not to think of you in the little things. Not to make the road wide for you, the table spread for you. To choose you out of habit not desire, to pass the flower seller without a thought. To leave the...
“You see, I know you through and through. I know exactly what you want. You want me to tell you what I know….I want like hell to tell you. But I can’t. I quite literally can’t. Because, don’t you see, what I know is what I am? And I can’t tell you that. You have to...
I’ve spent most of my life and most of my friendships holding my breath and hoping that when people get close enough they won’t leave, and fearing that it’s a matter of time before they figure me out and go.
Follow the tugs in your heart. I think that everyone gets these gentle urges and should listen to them. Even if they sound absolutely insane, they may be worth going for.
— Victoria Moran
...admittedly I feel the tug now and again...but...i can't say i'm always good at...
As a woman, I feel continually Shhh'ed.
Too sensitive, too mushy, too wishy washy.
Don't let someone steal your tenderness.
Don't allow the coldness and fear of others to tarnish your perfectly vulnerable beating heart.
Nothing is more powerful than allowing...
"I felt like crying but nothing came out. it was just a sort of sad sickness, sick sad, when you can’t feel any worse. I think you know it. I think everybody knows it now and then. but I think I have known it pretty often, too often."
— Charles Bukowski