Turtleneck James.

04.15.14 @ 18:00115


When he talks about her, my heart tries to shell itself like a clam

to see if there’s any soft meat inside worth saving.

I’ve never even said a single word to her, yet the language

they learned together is one I’m forced to be fluent in.

Feel like a stained glass window that won’t let any light through

when I’m reminded that there was actually another woman before me.

And I know this way of thinking

is like catching the moon between your thumb and index finger,

like believing the sun is closer than it is,

but I’ve never been particularly good with perspective.

There’s always the lingering fear that he still loves her

still loves her like you’d love a slow bruise

that hurts black and blue but feels so good too,

like trees thirst for the acid rain that kills them.

I need to stop carrying this memory of someone I’ve never even met

around inside me like ambulances carry their dead bodies.

So give me a purple heart for this battle I’ve been in, this doubt,

because I’ve been wounded but I’m still breathing too.

04.15.14 @ 17:511202

~   Pien Pouwels (via barney-barrett)
~   Elizabeth Wurtzel (Prozac Nation)

04.15.14 @ 05:12877

04.15.14 @ 05:12891


Every creative act is a defiance against the natural laws of the universe. Creating form when all things trend toward dissolution. It’s simple thermodynamics. Artistry as perversion against the inevitability that all matter will one day come to rest, not the barest burst of hydrogen daring to stir in the coldness on eternity’s brim. Writers and musicians, sculptors and dancers, the charcoal-smeared illustrators and grimacing poets, all composing in light of their own decomposition. It’s irony, it’s beauty, it’s tragic corruption! you clamor, wielding the pen as the stars continue to grow more distant.

04.15.14 @ 05:09203953

04.14.14 @ 07:539466