living in fear we'll be swallowed by the ground.
1 month ago

I am not the first person you loved.
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.

This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.

And I will not be afraid
of your scars.

I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.

»Clementine von Radics, Mouthful of Forevers (via waydowntown)
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1 month ago

really excited to see funeral advantage and the sharpest tomorrow. 

most excited about getting wendell’s with nick jacobs beforehand. awe hell ya.

after our wing escapade i’ve decided i really should start following my gluten free diet. before i die or whatever.

i think i’ll start going back to my brother’s house to work out since i am alone and have no one else to worry about or anything.

plus i think it’ll be a good way to get my anger out.

1 month ago
Passion has little to do with euphoria and everything to do with patience. It is not about feeling good. It is about endurance. Like patience, passion comes from the same Latin root: pati. It does not mean to flow with exuberance. It means to suffer. »House of Leaves (527)
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me with my guitar always



me with my guitar always

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there was something in the way you felt so bad after 9 pm, how you sat there silent with clammy hands and the anxiety swept through your brittle bones like a deer frozen in the street as it’s fate crashed into it. somewhat like my fucked up feelings about this situation every time i try to lay in bed. the concern of awakening another, such an empty respect you pay when the sound of your voice is screaming in my eardrums. maybe it’s just me. i took one for the team, but not willingly. the ghost of you speaks in tongues next to me in my sleep of how terrible she was but how incredibly often she inhabited your very being. the sense of terror of a new face looking back at you makes you so uneasy. you can only hide in your room for so long before reality hits you. eighteen wheeler at midnight honking it’s horn in your head. no more car rides home yelling the words to some overrated taking back sunday song. now it’s me riding alone being bad news because i let it go to my head. 

i wish i was your turning point, your next chapter. not an unimportant piece of history. i’d papercut my blood into the pages to know i made a best seller. i tore the pages out for you of my deepest darkest fears. i felt a safe sense of comfort in the way you’d grab me by the hips and push me closer. it was all a comedy series that no one really laughed at. for me it was a late night rerun, and i’m tired of re watching the episodes of our endeavors in my head. for someone so numb to feel something was incredible - i never thought i’d relish in the day i’d wake up without a voice telling me the worst of the day ahead of me. and to have such a positive moment and positive feelings grow like weeds in my heart be picked out and thrown in the trash, there is an emptiness i have never felt before. i do not want to see another set of eyes look my way, and make me believe that i was ever anything but a dandelion. no matter how much i grow, how compassionate, loving, and caring i am; i am still undesired in anyone’s garden. i will be picked out.


all of the tears.


(Source: theshellshack)

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