You will meet a tall dark stranger and he will fuck your shit up.
We don’t know why, some kind of cosmic joke.
It is terrifying how little you will be able to control yourself.
The bills will go unpaid. There will be flies in the kitchen.
A smile will insist on flirting with your lips. Too much
of a good thing will chew you up and swallow you whole.
The moon is in your house and has nothing to say
about all your nonsense. Now may be a good time to go
on a long journey. The stars think you need to clear your head.
The stars think you need to run.

—  -Your Latest Horoscope, Clementine von Radics (via caseylee)

(via spookiestghoul)

11:18

9:39    source   reblog

Yesterday, I spent 60 dollars on groceries,
took the bus home,
carried both bags with two good arms back to my studio apartment
and cooked myself dinner.
You and I may have different definitions of a good day.
This week, I paid my rent and my credit card bill,
worked 60 hours between my two jobs,
only saw the sun on my cigarette breaks
and slept like a rock.
Flossed in the morning,
locked my door,
and remembered to buy eggs.
My mother is proud of me.
It is not the kind of pride she brags about at the golf course.
She doesn’t combat topics like, ”My daughter got into Yale”
with, “Oh yeah, my daughter remembered to buy eggs”
But she is proud.
See, she remembers what came before this.
The weeks where I forgot how to use my muscles,
how I would stay as silent as a thick fog for weeks.
She thought each phone call from an unknown number was the notice of my suicide.
These were the bad days.
My life was a gift that I wanted to return.
My head was a house of leaking faucets and burnt-out lightbulbs.
Depression, is a good lover.
So attentive; has this innate way of making everything about you.
And it is easy to forget that your bedroom is not the world,
That the dark shadows your pain casts is not mood-lighting.
It is easier to stay in this abusive relationship than fix the problems it has created.
Today, I slept in until 10,
cleaned every dish I own,
fought with the bank,
took care of paperwork.
You and I might have different definitions of adulthood.
I don’t work for salary, I didn’t graduate from college,
but I don’t speak for others anymore,
and I don’t regret anything I can’t genuinely apologize for.
And my mother is proud of me.
I burned down a house of depression,
I painted over murals of greyscale,
and it was hard to rewrite my life into one I wanted to live
But today, I want to live.
I didn’t salivate over sharp knives,
or envy the boy who tossed himself off the Brooklyn bridge.
I just cleaned my bathroom,
did the laundry,
called my brother.
Told him, “it was a good day.

—  

Kait Rokowski (A Good Day)

"Depression is a good lover"

(via loveandddrevenge)

Fuck

(via swallowmewhole)

(via rapscallions)

7:31

conveniently got back into taylor swift in the midst of a breakup and turning 22.

9:50

feeling 22 ~ birthday weekend edition 

9:49  reblog

Every introvert alive knows the exquisite pleasure of stepping from the clamor of a party into the bathroom and closing the door.

—  

Sophia Dembling, The Introvert’s Way: Living a Quiet Life in a Noisy World (via becomingroux)

This is the same for every irritable person.

(via sayitinslugs)

(via sayitinslugs)

6:25

Neuropsychology can help to explain poetry, to demystify the impulse. There has been work done on why poetry can send shivers down our spine. The poem activates the same parts of the brain that react when a child is separated from its mother. A deep sense of separation and longing.

—  Sean Haldane, poet and consultant clinical neuropsychologist working with the NHS in east London (via whoeverswinning)

(via sayitinslugs)

9:16

0-112:

“Hell is loving you in my sleep and waking up alone.”

10:29

Lust is so inadequate. And loving exhausts me.

—  Anne Sexton, from A Self-portrait in Letters (via c-ovet)

(via lifeinpoetry)

8:42

I turn twenty-two at midnight. this year, I’ve got a broken heart, fewer friends, and two exams on Thursday with a twelve hour shift in between.

7:01