Love Is a Losing Game
Maybe we’ll meet again, when we are slightly older and our minds less hectic, and I’ll be right for you and you’ll be right for me. But right now, I am chaos to your thoughts and you are poison to my heart.

Wishful thinking (via nullalibertas)

(via ohthis-isadelight)

The problem with the term domestic violence is that, like the prettily bruised goddesses, it doesn’t quite capture the shattering of bones, the clotting of blood, the breaking of nose, the breaking of teeth, the breaking of ribs, the attempts to burn you. Neither does it quite capture the casual slap, the once in a lifetime slap, the eternal threat of the slap. It doesn’t quite get that second meaning of the word ‘beaten’. It is being defeated. Only by someone you know and trust.

Time stretches out after a slap, a punch, a broken nose. And in that time you have to live with the fact that you’ve been hit, you’ve also got to live with the knowledge that the person you live with, cares so little about you that they have hit you. That you are worth so little. This is why you hide your battered body. You hide it from the world who will know that you have been valued so little and you hide it from yourself because not quite registering that knowledge will let you live with yourself. It will let you live with the series of events and decisions that you think led to this moment.

- Excerpt from Nisha Susan’s eloquent article on domestic violence.

I must say that I quite relate with her, albeit I’ve been told such things since a lesser period of time.

(via nirantar)


☾✞♡Enter my world of vintage/grunge♡✞☽
Do not make homes out of people. This will leave you
homesick and sad.
- Michelle K., Home (via purplebuddhaproject)

It’s scary how much of you time has washed away. It’s scary the way I don’t remember what the braille across your cheeks read anymore. I don’t remember the way your body looked crawling over mine or the way your lips felt on my neck. I can’t conjure the sound of your deep breathing at 2 AM. I can’t even remember the music of your laugh, that beautiful crescendo of the happiness that blessed you so fleetingly. Some of my favorite memories were ones of us laughing and I can’t even have that anymore. I used to pine for the fine print, and now I pine for the vision to read it. I used to pray for matches, and now I’m hosing down the remnants of the bridge. Forgetting you didn’t console my heart. Moving on didn’t stop the hurt.
- Alone in Montauk, by Stevie Lorann (via cybergirlfriend)


(leo fitzpatrick)