“Wanna know the fucking truth? Nobody is fucking happy. Nobody has skin made from oil paint and sunlight. Nobody fucking understands this world. Fuck, nobody understands math as much as they claim. You’re here one day and the next you’re not. God? Religion? I’ve learned a lot more about the world by eating acid and swallowing pills. Tell me what your church has done for you? Tell me if you have holes in your mouth from speaking lies? Wanna know the fucking truth? Pity is just another word for pathetic. Drink beer and watch the sunrise from every rooftop. Take photographs naked. Take photographs kissing. Take photographs having sex. Stop making everything about sexuality. Wanna know the fucking truth? Nobody really gives a damn if you lost your virginity at fourteen or if you were the president in high school. Wanna know the fucking truth? There is no such thing as the right person. People leave. They change like ocean currents, they leave you with bruises in your calves. And you wanna know the fucking truth? You get better. You learn to love. You find God in between the cracks of a wall when you’re puking your limbs out. You wanna know the fucking truth? Go find it.”—something someone should have told me when i was eighteen (via andie-aWoah (via vanilla-daisies)
“Sometimes I sit down and wonder why my life turned out this way. I sit down and flipflop bits of my life. For instance, I sit down and think what if I had one of those families who wakeup and have banana pancakes or oatmeal together, and have a casserole of lasagna before collapsing onto their bed. I never had the privilege of having a father who called me “daddy’s little girl.” You know whats weird…. sometimes I’m with my father and I feel this tension of awkwardness between us. It’s like we have the same DNA but it’s covered in ice. Sometimes I sit and wonder what if I loved myself from the start instead of learning to love myself because I used to detest who I was from the start. Sometimes I sit down and think that this world is a marathon of experiences, things occur a different way because it’ll be an experience that would make me blossom or would help me make someone else’s life blossom into something wonderful because I know what it once felt like….. and thats what calms me down at least for now.”—Alexa Evangelista (via vodkakilledtheteens)
“Are you the SAT because I’d do you for 3 hours and 45 minutes with a 10 minute break halfway through for snacks, and then I can stare at you for like 10 minutes and think ‘wow, I hope I don’t ruin this.’”— Dude on OKC with the best pick up lines I have ever heard (via katamarang)
For example: You are the ugly way I feel about Los Angeles, mouth a smear like sunset singed with citrus burns. Hollywood hill is a smashed pomegranate against your scorched teeth. All the stars walk the red carpet while I write sonnets to your mouth. It’s been too long since the last time we spoke, I’ve forgotten what everyone else looks like — your hands are trees made of smog, and they have taken root in my lungs. I wish this city would burn to the ground.
For example: The last time I fell in love, I broke all the dishes in the kitchen and bled out on the floor. You were not good for me. You held the bandaids, but I told you to put them back in the drawer. I loved being so broken for you — your heart was a hospital without the healing. My parents never taught me that being loved for your wounds was wrong.
For example: Tonight, I am falling asleep without you. I’ve had bad dreams ever since we met, things about dark-haired women that die because they never ran fast enough. I never ran fast enough. I’m still learning what it’s like not to find your face etched into the wood of my floorboards, and I’m failing miserably. You were not good for me.
For example: You were not good for me. You were California burning, and my lungs couldn’t take it. You were not good for me. You were a broken spine I couldn’t set; I was a scab you always picked. You were not good for me.
For example: Get out of my poetry, nobody wants to read about the ways we broke. Get out of my poetry, this isn’t about you anymore. This is about Los Angeles and how much I hate the sky. California wasn’t good for me — nothing about dying is pretty.
“If you repeat something over and over again it loses its meaning; You watch the sunset too often it just becomes 6 pm, you make the same mistake over and over you stop calling it a mistake. If you just wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up one day you’ll forget why”—Phil Kaye from Repetition (via kiddings)
“I won’t beg someone to love me. I learned long ago that there is no use in hopeless pleas of trying to make someone stay. I am too good to chase someone who does not know my worth and I am too wild to keep waiting for someone who doesn’t acknowledge my value. I want to be loved unconditionally. I shouldn’t have to fight so hard for it. I do not have the time to prove to someone that I am worth it. I shouldn’t have to prove any of that; I am worth more than that.”—