July 22nd
4:50 AM
Via

the-time-goddess-of-221b:

smoochlock:

so my mum told me that as a kid she would peel an apple and throw the peel over her shoulder, and the peel would take the shape of the first letter of her future spouse. naturally, i decided to do it and

image

i’m fucking crying 

it says ‘no.’

it literally says NO.

oh my god

4:41 AM
Via
cold-crystal:

Submarine dir. Richard Ayoade

cold-crystal:

Submarine dir. Richard Ayoade

July 20th
2:31 PM
Via
"

We went wrong the moment we were born. You got addicted to the taste of cigarette smoke, and you drank more glasses of whiskey than you could count in your fingers. But you don’t really smoke or drink. You just pretend that you’re doing all these bad things to validate your imperfections. Your parents tell you that you’re allowed to tell them your problems. And you just keep your mouth clamped with the key loose in between your teeth.

Because you can’t tell them. You can’t them anything that won’t involve crying or disappointment. You think of telling them that you failed your last math exam, but you don’t because you already know what they’re going to say. The words “unworthy” and “useless” will fly out of their lips and brand its letters on your forehead. You’re going to act like it’s a label you’ve set for yourself. You think they won’t even care.

And the moment you try telling them that your body is a branch hole of nerves and shaking limbs, they’re going to laugh at you until they’ve filled grief in your system. You think that they’re not going to believe you. That they’re going to throw your anxiety back in your face like a baseball bat. When you cry at night, you clutch your chest with your forlorn fingers, pretending that your mother is shushing you to sleep. Your bruised ankles and broken shins will be the cause of your death, because when you can no longer walk from the internal beating, there will be nothing for you left.

You’re trying so hard to be this perfect daughter, who has a ribcage made of fulfilled promises and a life she made for herself, not a broken bridge that’s been burning in a shell. And your parents tell you that disappointment is not an option, that no matter how cruel they may be, this is for your own good.

And you erase the pain you’ve been lifting up on your shoulders, the lightning kisses inside your chest. You whisper to yourself that no one should be perfect.

"
—  "Can’t I be perfect?" || m.a.p. (via rhapxody)
July 19th
3:57 PM
Via
July 17th
2:43 PM
Via
3:37 AM
Via
"She has a soul like stained glass. Pretty enough, yeah, but broken into all these pieces. The thing is, though, that just like stained glass, when the light is shining through her in just the right way, it’s just about the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen."
—  (via randompoeticthings)
3:37 AM
Via
2:30 AM
Via
way-division:

All my motives and every single narrative below reflects that moment when it broke and will I never let it go. x

way-division:

All my motives and every single narrative below reflects that moment when it broke and will I never let it go. x

"When you grow up as a girl, the world tells you the things that you are supposed to be: emotional, loving, beautiful, wanted. And then when you are those things, the world tells you they are inferior: illogical, weak, vain, empty. The world teaches you that the way you exist in it is disgusting — you watch boys cringe backward in your dorm room when you talk about your period, blue water pretending to be blood in a maxi pad commercial. It is little things, and it is constant. In a food court in a mall, after you go to the gynecologist for the first time, you and your friend talk about how much it hurts, and over her shoulder you watch two boys your age turn to look at you and wrinkle their noses: the reality of your life is impolite to talk about. The world says that you don’t have a right to the space you occupy, any place with men in it is not yours, you and your body exist only as far as what men want to do with it. At fifteen, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. At almost thirty, you find fifteen-year-old boys you have never met still somehow believe you should bend your body to their will. They are children. They are children."
—  Stevie Nicks (via pornstarwars)