2. thesleeperinthevalley:

    Beirut - Nantes

    Well, it’s been a long time, long time now
    since I’ve seen you smile.
    And I’ll gamble away my fright,
    and I’ll gamble away my time time,
    and in a year, a year or so,
    this will slip into the sea.
    But, it’s been a long time, long time now
    since I’ve seen you smile.

    (via pupofficial)


  3. nnilkshake:

    life hack: make out with me

    (Source: nnilkshake, via vincent-van-gay)


  4. "Nobody will protect you from your suffering. You can’t cry it away or eat it away or starve it away or walk it away or punch it away or even therapy it away. It’s just there, and you have to survive it. You have to endure it. You have to live through it and love it and move on and be better for it and run as far as you can in the direction of your best and happiest dreams across the bridge that was built by your own desire to heal."
    — Cheryl Strayed (via wwwsally)

    (Source: the-healing-nest, via talkwordytome)


  5. "

    The first man to name me “goddess”
    was twenty-one and drunk on rum.
    Breath heavy with lust and booze, he told me
    that most nights he carved poems into the walls trying to write me alive in the room with him,
    so when the light hit the scrapes just right,
    he could catch his breath for a minute.
    I was just fifteen, all ivory thighs and wild eyes,
    but still he held my spine between his teeth and spun words off his tongue like thread—
    they wrapped around me in a throat-crushing tangle,
    but when my limbs began to struggle,
    I convinced myself it was some sort of embrace.
    One night he called me saying,
    “Babygirl, you gotta open your window and stare out at that moon. Isn’t it beautiful, baby? Look at the sky holding up that massive thing all on its own. Damn, you’re just like that, you know?
    You’re my sky.”
    My frail bones were cracking under the weight of the rock he sickly called devotion—
    instead of shattering, I let him become a solar eclipse
    and never looked back at him again.

    The second boy came to me on his knees at seventeen:
    a past lover replaced with steel skin and iron irises.
    I’ve never heard a voice as cold as his was, begging for my touch and dripping false sincerity off the edges of his lips.
    He cried, “I didn’t know I needed you until you were gone. I didn’t want to hurt you. I’m just fucked up in the head.
    Maybe you can soothe the ache in my soul if you kiss it just right with those words of yours.
    You’ve always known just what to say.”
    Each whisper echoed with a heavy blow that rung in my ears
    and bruised my bones so deeply that I still feel them in the marrow.
    As he spoke, I could feel those phantom-fingers that once fit so well between my thighs
    beginning to curl around my ankles,
    so I stepped on them.

    The third man held nineteen years in his fists and
    told me I wrote like words were poison,
    as if I needed to pull them out of my gut as quickly as I could scratch them down, just so I wouldn’t choke.
    Now I was sixteen and slinking around in ink-black stockings,
    lips red and bloody from tearing the hearts of men out of their sleeves with my teeth.
    He claimed I was wild like nothing he’d seen before.
    “You’re wise for your age,” he declared. “You remind me of a Burroughs novel; I just can’t seem to understand you.”
    I tried to unwrap my heart and serve it to him,
    all raw and brutal,
    but he returned it untouched, replying, “Stay quiet, now, darling, I don’t want to hear it just now. It’ll spoil it all, you see.”
    To him I was a character, a fetishized fantasy,
    and he’d cover his ears if I ever tried to speak
    outside of a poem.

    See, men only seem to stumble upon me in the dark,
    as they grasp and fumble for something to swallow to convince their starving hearts
    that they’re worth beating.
    They hear my words as a siren call and drink me down in heavy doses.
    Then, they crush me between their fingers and grind the dust into the ground with their heels so they can keep trudging along,
    toting their tragedy behind them.
    In their swollen eyes, I am only a poetic panacea.
    But god, in the time that it’s taken for my rubble to reform into this shape they call a body,
    I have grown thunderstorms in my skin and collected tornadoes under my tongue.
    Yes, I’ve been told many times by those who try to solve me
    that I exist only so that I may be destroyed
    for the sake of others,
    but instead, I have become a forest fire,
    and I will burn myself alive to tear down
    the thicket in my path until
    I’m standing in the wake of my
    destruction as merely

    — "I Am Not A Cure" by Abigail Staub (via guiseofgentlewords)
    i wrote this a few weeks ago and it is a strange comfort (via guiseofgentlewords)

    (via safetysoff)


  6. The World At Large - Modest Mouse
    I like songs about drifters, books about the same
    They both seem to make me feel a little less insane
    Walked on off to another spot
    I still haven’t gotten anywhere that I want

    (Source: play-listings, via vincent-van-gay)

  7. ericlide:

    a new saga begins…..

    (via pupofficial)


  11. "Our hearts beat so loud the neighbours think we’re fucking when I’m just trying to find the nerve to touch your face."
    — Andrea Gibson, Pansies  (via cityandcolourblind)

    (Source: larmoyante, via alwayswithoutwords)

  12. (Source: brentcool, via mostlyjudson)

  13. likeafieldmouse:

    Whitney Bedford - Selections from the Shipwreck series

    (via didyourmomjustcallmeababydyke)

  14. wombatking:

    No cola. Only Justice.

    (Source: mysharona1987, via holytoledobatman)

  15. 1924us:

    Indian Heaven Wilderness, WA. June 26.

    (Source: theskatedistrict.com, via thecountryfucker)