If you get hungry enough, they say, you start eating your own heart.

~   Margaret Atwood (via mermaidsbones) (via holtzapfel)
06.18.13 /09:07/♥ 7543
Ellen Kennedy, “I want to kill everyone you know and then myself”
06.18.13 /09:07/♥ 2084

Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all.

~   Catherynne M. Valente, Deathless (via witheredbluebells)
06.18.13 /09:07/♥ 24

My alone feels so good, I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude.

~   Warsan Shire (via ikenbot)
06.18.13 /09:05/♥ 41924
vega-ofthe-lyre: Snow by Anne Sexton
06.18.13 /09:05/♥ 61

If you think of it all this way, then it’s like neither of us did anything wrong.

You just found me in the wrong universe. That’s all. This is, as they say, the darkest timeline. Everywhere else, nay, “everywhen” else— us in the Civil War, us in Ancient Egypt, us in the swinging ’60s— we are happy.

If this theory holds, well, by the law of averages, there had to be one universe— just this one— where we don’t end up together. Here and now just happens to be it. If you think of it this way, nothing is our fault.

So see, that explains everything. We’re not together anymore because of the multiverse.
Well, isn’t that comforting?

If you’re sad, do like I do and just think of the other ‘verses. The ones where I believe in love and where I don’t hate myself and where I never feel the need to kamikaze relationships. A universe where we can have nice things. It’s helpful, right?

Because you could have loved me forever. And maybe in another universe, I let you.

~   Thought Catalog, Maybe In Another Universe, I Deserve You  (via eveningowl)
06.18.13 /09:04/♥ 3104

Mark Daniel - Kolmanskop, 2008

06.18.13 /09:04/♥ 11813

And this is how we danced: with our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August

turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers

sweeping though my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned

into heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart

there are two headless people building a burning house.
There was always the shotgun above the fireplace.

Always another hour to kill—only to beg some god
to give it back. If not the attic, the car. If not the car,

the dream. If not the boy, his clothes. If not alive,
put down the phone. Because the year is a distance

we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say: this is how
we danced: alone in sleeping bodies. Which is to say:

This is how we loved: a knife on the tongue turning
into a tongue.

~   Ocean Vuong, “Home Wrecker” (via commovente)
06.18.13 /09:04/♥ 1677

mythanthropes:

— Bluebeard’s Final Girl, or, The Revisionist by Veronica Schanoes

06.18.13 /09:03/♥ 182

A lovely young girl lies on a bed in the dark listening to a fairy tale,” I said. “But she’s naked and the storyteller’s hands are all over her.

~   The Last Werewolf, Glen Duncan (via hotelsongs)
06.18.13 /09:03/♥ 3161
Canvas  by  andbamnan