babyheroin:

Reasons To Be Happy:

  1. Dead trees still stand and so can you.
  2. You have five fingers on each hand. One day those fingers will travel from your lap to someone else’s and that person will know all the bad stuff and still want to kiss you. 
  3. Seasons are guaranteed when nothing else seems to be.

(via slutgarden)

(Source: nnarry, via foreverayoungblood)

peelsofpoetry:

I Don’t Do Love Well
by Michelle Dent


I don’t do love well
I take it too
personally I hang
on to it like it’s
mine like it
arrives with
luggage I don’t
do love well I
think it will last
forever and means
every word it
says and keeps on
meaning it I don’t
do love well
I make it more
than it is
what is it?
I turn it into belief
when all it really
wants to see is its
own reflection
I don’t do love well.

I did not like to be touched, but it was a strange dislike. I did not like to be touched because I craved it too much. I wanted to be held very tight so I would not break.
Marya Hornbacher  (via akkachan)

(via yunzi)

In Seasons

I think of you in colors that I wish I didn’t see anymore. Black and blue, I’m so blue for you. Blue as this sky that has nothing to do with what I’m thinking. I sink like a stone into drool when I dream of you—I’m a child and I need you like birds need a sky to fly home to you. I gnaw at your knees my arm around your leg your hand on my head my heart pumping red that I spit back up for you instead. Your eyes on my eyes, will you put me back to bed?

I think of you in shadows that sit next to me on trains. In bathrooms and bars. You’re brushing your teeth at the sink - I’m saving you this seat. I stick to you like your fingers inside of me crawling like roaches that reach my throat and I’m dropped into quicksand I’m left to choke. The drinks you were pounding you crying so loudly, my face in the mattress I can’t stand the sound and I’m soaked in your blood now, the maggots have found me.

I love you always. ln all ways and seasons. The heat wave that came when the sidewalks froze over. A swarm of bees coming for me—the twister in the meadow that killed all the daisies I think I’ve gone crazy. You remain in me. This dreaded melody. The song I will never sing. I had to burn everything. The fire in our room that went out too soon—one thousand reunions we knew we were doomed, your ribcage at noon the flowers just bloomed and five hours later completely in ruins.

I loved you like I won’t love anyone again. A love that broke me and left me for dead. A love that you spit in my face that I swallowed whole and it died in me. This love turned to shit right inside of me. One planet crashing into another—In a dream you came to me you couldn’t help my melancholy our whiskey sky a lullaby, you’re the soundtrack to my memory. Everything is madness. This world has no color. Just black and white channels with outlines of lovers, the rain falls as vomit my words are just garbage. Tell me in our next lives we’ll be good to each other.

(Source: laurtobi, via alienloafcake)

ramirezdahmerbundy:


The suicide note. A collection of words written impulsively in a crazed frenzy, or carefully, thoughtfully agonized over, so each word fits and flows seamlessly. Highly choreographed, overly manipulated, driven by madness, or calmly articulated - it doesn’t matter. Each note is the same, each note is different - a last word leaving no room for rebuttal. Suicide notes are meant to explain, revoke sympathy, provide understanding, answer questions, or create new ones. They beg for forgiveness, confess deep, dark secrets, or attempt to hide things. Some point fingers, sharing the truth and thus setting off a spree of investigations.
Excerpts from some famous suicides:
Jules Pascin:  “Lucy, Pardonnez-moi,”
Hunter S. Thompson: “Football Season is Over. No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax This won’t hurt.”
Sylvia Plath: “Please call Dr. Horder.”
Dorothy Dandridge: “In case of my death, to whomever discovers it, don’t remove anything I have on - scarf, gown or underwear. Cremate me right away. If I have anything, money, furniture, give it to my mother Ruby Dandridge. She will know what to do.
Virginia Woolf: “I feel certain that I’m going mad again. I feel we can’t go thru another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do.”
Spalding Gray: “It’s an old story you’ve heard over and over. My life is coming to an end. Everything is in my head now. My timing is off. In the last two years I’ve had at least ten therapists and all those shock treatments. Suicide is a viable alternative for me instead of going to an institution. I don’t want an audiene. I don’t want anyone to see me slip into the water.”
Wendy O. Williams: “I don’t believe that people should take their own lives without deep and thoughtful reflection over a considerable period of time.”
Clara Blandick: “I am now about to make the great adventure. I cannot endure this agonizing pain any longer. It is all over my body. Neither can I face the impending blindness. I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.”
James Whale: “The future is just old age and illness and pain…. I must have peace and this is the only way.”
Sid Vicious: “We made a death pact, and I have to accomplish my part of the deal. Please bury me next to my baby. Please bury me with my leather jacket, jeans and motorcycle boots. Goodbye. With love, Sid.”
Per Yngve Ohlin: “Excuse all the blood.”

ramirezdahmerbundy:

The suicide note. A collection of words written impulsively in a crazed frenzy, or carefully, thoughtfully agonized over, so each word fits and flows seamlessly. Highly choreographed, overly manipulated, driven by madness, or calmly articulated - it doesn’t matter. Each note is the same, each note is different - a last word leaving no room for rebuttal. Suicide notes are meant to explain, revoke sympathy, provide understanding, answer questions, or create new ones. They beg for forgiveness, confess deep, dark secrets, or attempt to hide things. Some point fingers, sharing the truth and thus setting off a spree of investigations.

Excerpts from some famous suicides:

Jules Pascin:  “Lucy, Pardonnez-moi,”

Hunter S. Thompson: “Football Season is Over. No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax This won’t hurt.”

Sylvia Plath: “Please call Dr. Horder.”

Dorothy Dandridge: “In case of my death, to whomever discovers it, don’t remove anything I have on - scarf, gown or underwear. Cremate me right away. If I have anything, money, furniture, give it to my mother Ruby Dandridge. She will know what to do.

Virginia Woolf: “I feel certain that I’m going mad again. I feel we can’t go thru another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do.”

Spalding Gray: “It’s an old story you’ve heard over and over. My life is coming to an end. Everything is in my head now. My timing is off. In the last two years I’ve had at least ten therapists and all those shock treatments. Suicide is a viable alternative for me instead of going to an institution. I don’t want an audiene. I don’t want anyone to see me slip into the water.”

Wendy O. Williams: “I don’t believe that people should take their own lives without deep and thoughtful reflection over a considerable period of time.”

Clara Blandick: I am now about to make the great adventure. I cannot endure this agonizing pain any longer. It is all over my body. Neither can I face the impending blindness. I pray the Lord my soul to take. Amen.”

James Whale: The future is just old age and illness and pain…. I must have peace and this is the only way.”

Sid Vicious:We made a death pact, and I have to accomplish my part of the deal. Please bury me next to my baby. Please bury me with my leather jacket, jeans and motorcycle boots. Goodbye. With love, Sid.”

Per Yngve Ohlin: “Excuse all the blood.”

(via st1letto)

(via sm0keytaboo)

(Source: tori-fiona-regina, via sexidance)

(via gnarcisssist)

(Source: vampireweakend, via yeezytaughtme)

(Source: aileenohplease, via sunelephants)

kawaicandy:

How do you reign in the character’s eccentricity ? Well, I had to be prepared to let people dislike her at times because she’s a bit of a bitch, but at the same time, she’s gorgeous and she’s funny and she’s silly and you sort of feel for her. You kind of sense her confusion about who she is and her life. She’s very, very vulnerable, I think, underneath all of that stuff. I just had to work very, very hard. Sometimes I would say to Michel, “Let me know if I’m not going enough. Let me know if I’m going too far.” And more often than not, he would be pushing me further. I was so terrified of being over the top and he would just say, “No, no, no. More, more, more.” And I’d be like, “Really ?” He’d go, “Yeah, it doesn’t matter. Just do it, just try it.” That was fantastically liberating. When you do classical period films, you don’t get the opportunity to do that. It’s a more subtle approach.

(Source: vermillons, via mumia-deactivated20120821)

(via gnarcisssist)

(Source: 1ndigo7, via pokingsmot)