She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there, leaning on the...– J.D. Salinger, A Girl I Knew (via sleepdeep)
I lift my arm out of the water. It’s a log. Put it back under and it blows up...– Wintergirls, Laurie Halse Anderson (via quotequotas)
n. the moment you realize that you’re currently happy—consciously trying to savor the feeling—which prompts your intellect to identify it, pick it apart and put it in context, where it will slowly dissolve until it’s little more than an aftertaste.
inkedribs: Some days I only like my collarbones. Not the skin that covers them, not the muscles and tendons beneath them, just the bones themselves. Their harshness and symmetry, the way they bracket my body. I find that even when I am at my most unlovable, my skeleton does what it’s meant to, my clavicles sit where they always have, providing a place for fingernail bruises and a reminder that I...
To be alive at all is to have scars.– John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent (via fleshscars)
That corpse you planted last year in your garden, Has it begun to sprout? Will...– from The Waste Land, by T.S. Elliot (via pastthepavementthatweusedtowalk)
is there someone lovely for me to talk to right now?
Well that is that and this is this. Will you tell me what you saw and...
Go out and do something. It isn’t your room that’s a prison, it’s yourself.– Sylvia Plath (via fleshscars)
i do miss posting on tumblr dearly. collar bones are so god-damn special.
always3am: People cannot abide being around you when you are depressed. They might think that they ought to, and they might even try, but you know and they know that you are tedious beyond belief: you are irritable and paranoid and humorless and lifeless and critical and demanding and no reassurance is ever enough. You’re frightened, and you’re frightening, and you’re ‘not at all like yourself...