I worked out that I didn’t want really to talk to you
all I really wanted was a shower and a sitcom or two to ignore while I surfed some strangers’ tumblrs
but here’s the thing:
I don’t want you to ever forget what you did to me. Because for some stupid fucking reason I’ll never forget you.
I want to drag you through each painful step of my recovery because you deserve to be here with me. You deserve this path each day and the pointed stones that have broken through the road, prepared for our feet.
I want to call you and remind you every day, every fucking day
that all in one night and one couch you brought 19 years and one week, all of 19 years and one week, to this screeching screaming searing halt
You deserve to be here, Taylor. You deserve me.
Come and accept my blame. Accept my guilt. Take it from me.
Keep taking and taking and taking, Taylor.
“So we dream on. Thus we invent our lives. We give ourselves a sainted mother, we make our father a hero; and someone’s older brother and someone’s older sister – they become our heroes too. We invent what we love and what we fear. There is always a brave lost brother – and a little lost sister, too. We dream on and on: the best hotel, the perfect family, the resort life. And our dreams escape us almost as vividly as we can imagine them… That’s what happens, like it or not.”—
The Hotel New Hampshire by John Irving
Hey sister, this one’s for you
"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 by Mark Danielewski (via lostinthesounds)
my living room can be just like the hospital if I take my pills in fistfuls and watch 80s and 90s movies until the effects set in
“We feel that to reveal embarrassing or private things, we have given someone something, that, like a primitive person fearing that a photographer will steal his soul, we identify our secrets, our past and their blotches, with our identity, that revealing our habits or losses or deeds somehow makes one less of oneself.”—
Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers
"When we die, these are the stories still on our lips. The stories we’ll only tell strangers, someplace private in the padded cell of midnight. These important stories, we rehearse them for years in our head but never tell. These stories are ghosts, bringing people back from the dead. Just for a moment. For a visit. Every story is a ghost."
Haunted by Chuck Palahniuk (via lostinthesounds)
my stomach hurts from the bowls of popcorn and the cans of coke
and watching my family dog dying
and feeling the scars on my arm
and wading through my body count
God, isn’t there enough law & order?
And then I think: I’m selfish. And somehow that calms me down.
But I could’ve sworn that I cared about you.
“Poison”
It was all very well to say ‘Drink me,’ but the wise little Alice was not going to do THAT in a hurry. ‘No, I’ll look first,’ she said, ‘and see whether it’s marked “poison” or not’; for she had read several nice little histories about children who had got burnt, and eaten up by wild beasts and other unpleasant things, all because they WOULD not remember the simple rules their friends had taught them: such as, that a red-hot poker will burn you if you hold it too long; and that if you cut your finger VERY deeply with a knife, it usually bleeds; and she had never forgotten that, if you drink much from a bottle marked ‘poison,’ it is almost certain to disagree with you, sooner or later.
However, this bottle was NOT marked ‘poison,’ so….she very soon finished it off
“After a while you learn the subtle difference Between holding a hand and chaining a soul, And you learn that love doesn’t mean leaning And company doesn’t mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren’t contracts And presents aren’t promises, And you begin to accept your defeats With your head up and your eyes open With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child, And you learn to build all your roads on today Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn… That even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul, Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure… That you really are strong And you really do have worth… And you learn and learn… With every good-bye you learn.”—
Jorge Luis Borges, “You Learn”, trans. Veronica A. Shoffstall
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my muscles quiver and shake like the internet. My head swims and spins from the medication. Maybe they thought that if I couldn’t focus I’d feel better. Maybe that’s what’s making me better.
I’d be better if I didn’t feel so hard and deep, bruising and scarring the ones I feel for and with and from. If I were better, we could be friends with proper fences. Good fences make good neighbors, you know.
We’ll lose all that unhealthy feeling in the quivers and shakes and spinning currents and then I’ll be good, I’ll be good enough.
sad as fuck
You can run away if you want
and I‘ll nail my feet to the floor if it means not chasing you
I am not your sister
I am not my brother
I am my Mother’s daughter
I am Dario’s Helena
I am deep swells of love and need
and war cries flung far
I am bitter cold of black skies, shaped like bowls
and warm blue, punctured by wooded lungs
I am rich, soft brown
I am hot tears
I am berry-colored lips
and the fingers on the back of your neck
I am Home Alone and Hook and A Little Princess on DVD
I am Alice through the Looking Glass
and Ozma ruling Oz
I am Wendy with her sickly sweet medicine cup in hand
and your thimble in my pocket reminds me
hay algo en mi para amar
“We can do nothing for him,” said the Tin Woodman, sadly; “for he is much too heavy to lift. We must leave him here to sleep on forever, and perhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last.”
“I’m sorry,” said the Scarecrow. “The Lion was a very good comrade for one so cowardly. But let us go on.”
"After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don’t you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?"
As Planned by Frank O’Hara (via lostinthesounds)
Don’t worry, we’re on the same page.
You’ve made all these knots in my stomach and back. And you’ve pulled them tight with your hands and your mouth. You’ve pulled them tight with comfort and reaffirmation. And you left them there. All the smiles and touches and kind words sunk deep and settled and hollowed into this knotted pit that’s every fear I told you I had. And that you said I could forget.
