One hears it a lot on airplanes: ‘Make sure you have your own mask on, before helping others with theirs.’
Daniel Handler (Lemony Snicket), upon being asked "What’s your very best life advice?"  (via broveria)

(Source: man-eatingcat, via sp0radiic)

This was posted 2 days ago. It has 19,671 notes.
She sounds enthusiastic even about boredom. And yet her burbly style does not ring true. I have seen her, sometimes, when she thinks I’m not looking: her face goes still, remote, unreflecting. It’s as if she’s not inside it. But then she’ll turn and laugh.
Margaret Atwood, from Cat’s Eye (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via cuteaquarius)

This was posted 2 days ago. It has 624 notes.
I want to hurt myself before you do, because I can do it better.
Nicole Blackman, What I Want For Christmas (And Other Holidays Where We Speak Of Dead Men)
This was posted 2 days ago. It has 2 notes.
I was within and without. Simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.
F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (via quotes-shape-us)

(via ribbon-on-your-parting-gift)

This was posted 3 days ago. It has 582 notes.
I refuse to chase anyone anymore
Six Word Story  (via queenheraa)

(Source: latelycravingmore, via cocoanegra)

This was posted 3 days ago. It has 138,939 notes.
I could make a life out of this. Not the smoking, but the aura of smoking, the togetherness and the nightfall and the words that we share.
The Realm Of Possibility, David Levithan (via miss-spiritualtramp)
This was posted 1 week ago. It has 1 note.
lora-mathis:


This Is A Poem, Lora Mathis

chloeannriley:
This is a poem. Greatness from Lora Mathis.
 

lora-mathis:

This Is A Poem, Lora Mathis

chloeannriley:

This is a poem. Greatness from Lora Mathis.

 

This was posted 1 week ago. It has 781 notes. .

we fell, we tried, we couldn’t, we were, we can’t, we will.

(Source: mostlyfiction, via larmoyante)

This was posted 1 week ago. It has 5,120 notes.

five hundred and thirty four: No More Living Like Sunsets.

fly-underground:

"No more living like sunsets." 

The day I give up, I send an excited email to my best friend, full of optimism, how good it feels to be single after months of not being single. I try to sleep without thinking your name, force myself to settle into dreams of someone else. I accidentally remember the birthmark on your neck. I look for you in things that aren’t even about you. I hate your sloppy handwriting and the shape of all your g’s. 

"No more living like sunsets." Whatever that means. I have never failed at anything so profoundly before. A friend asks me if I will ever say I loved you. My mother called it love once and I denied denied denied. 

Of course, I forgive you, you silly boy. I miss the darkness swelling around our tangled legs. I run into you in dreams where we don’t even touch. “I wanted to kiss you, so I did.” There isn’t a holiday that has the taste of your freshly brushed mouth. And I just celebrated Christmas, which was somehow still worth celebrating. 

"No more living like sunsets." You wrote this, a note in your handwriting, and it almost doesn’t matter that I dreamed it. You wrote this. This is yours. This whole piece belongs as much to you, I wonder if you ever have dreams too. About me, about my angry fading face, if I tell you "Yes, I loved you but now?" I leave you a note you have to find in some dusty corner of your mind. 

I take nothing back. If I could give you more of me, I would. Even if I had to leave, god, I loved you once. I loved you once. No more living like sunsets. There is light flooding everywhere. If we love again, it will be loving again. I miss our first time and our last time. I am not sorry we loved like a disappearing horizon line. Sparkling, glowing, nothing, nothing. 

This was posted 1 week ago. It has 30 notes.

You will be out with friends
when the news of her existence
will be accidentally spilled all over
your bar stool. Respond calmly
as if it was only a change in weather,
a punch line you saw coming.
After your fourth shot of cheap liquor,
leave the image of him kissing another woman
in the toilet.

In the morning, her name will be
in every headline: car crash, robbery, flood.
When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes
untangling themselves in your stomach.
You are the best friend again. He invites
you over for dinner and you say yes
too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,
it’s only dinner, everyone has to eat.
When he greets you at the door, do not think
for one second you are the reason
he wore cologne tonight.

In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you
a piece of red pepper. His laugh
will be low and warm and it will make you
feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special.
Do not count on your fingers the number
of freckles you could kiss too easily.
Try to think of pilot lights and olive oil,
not everything you have every loved about him,
or it will suddenly feel boiling and possible
and so close. You will find her bobby pins
laying innocently on his bathroom sink.
Her bobby pins. They look like the wiry legs
of spiders, splinters of her undressing
in his bed. Do not say anything.
Think of stealing them, wearing them
home in your hair. When he hugs you goodbye,
let him kiss you on the forehead.
Settle for target practice.

At home, you will picture her across town
pressing her fingers into his back
like wet cement. You will wonder
if she looks like you, if you are two bedrooms
in the same house. Did he fall for her features
like rearranged furniture? When he kisses her,
does she taste like wet paint?

You will want to call him.
You will go as far as holding the phone
in your hand, imagine telling him
unimaginable things like you are always
ticking inside of me
and I dream of you
more often than I don’t.
My body is a dead language
and you pronounce
each word perfectly.

Do not call him.
Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR.
She must make him happy.
She must be
She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis.
You are a souvenir shop, where he goes
to remember how much people miss him
when he is gone.

Sierra DeMulder, Unrequited Love Poem (via theoryoflostthings)
This was posted 1 week ago. It has 7,293 notes.

five hundred and ninety: Before Our Radio Silence

fly-underground:

Our first kiss was so sweet,
not even the strange aftermath
of our broken love
could take that away,
nor make the song I listened to on repeat
for that entire evening even an octave less perfect.

The irony of this poem
is the same irony as that song.
A man singing to a woman that she is less beautiful
than she thinks she is,
and a woman who preens knowingly,
because, well.
The irony is that song, of all songs,
is not a love song.
The irony is this poem, of all poems,
is not a love poem.

This was posted 1 week ago. It has 22 notes.

i want a word for the almost-home.

that point where the highway’s monotony becomes familiar
that subway stop whose name will always wake you from day’s-end dozing
that first glimpse of the skyline
that you never loved until you left it behind.

what do you call the exit sign you see even in your dreams?
is there a name for the airport terminal you come back to,
comfortably exhausted?

i need a word for rounding your corner onto your street,
for seeing your city on the horizon,
for flying homewards down your highway.

give me a word for the boundary
between the world you went to see
and the small one you call your own.

i want a word for the moment you know
you’re almost home.

there and back again, n.m.h. (via anoraborealis)

(via zolotolev)

This was posted 1 week ago. It has 47,401 notes.
I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I see you every Tuesday.
Lemony Snicket (via drapetomania)

(Source: larmoyante, via sp0radiic)

This was posted 2 weeks ago. It has 79,436 notes.

In the end I believe scientists are hopeless romantics desperate in love with the idea that the world makes sense.

Scientists have broken hearts and by combining toxic elements and reading the stars, they are able to write poetry.

Royla Asghar, The Astronomy Series #7 (via humanflower)

(via cat-with-antlers)

This was posted 2 weeks ago. It has 3,544 notes.
Addictions always originate in unhappiness, even if hidden.

They are emotional anesthetics; they numb pain. The first question — always — is not “Why the addiction?” but “Why the pain?” The answer, ever the same, is scrawled with crude eloquence on the wall of my patient Anna’s room at the Portland Hotel in the heart of Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside: “Any place I went to, I wasn’t wanted. And that bites large.”
Embraced By The Needle | Dr. Gabor Maté (via thinksquad)

(via cat-with-antlers)

This was posted 2 weeks ago. It has 112 notes.