(Source: babyheroin, via this--too--shall--pass)
"This feeling you give me would make a child of anyone. If only everyone on this earth could feel your light, there would be nothing left to hate or fight, and only room left inside of them to celebrate this life."
— Carlos Andrés Gómez (x) (via ahorton92)
(Source: quote-book)
"Maybe you can afford to wait. Maybe for you there’s a tomorrow. Maybe for you there’s one thousand tomorrows, or three thousand, or ten, so much time you can bathe in it, roll around it, let it slide like coins through your fingers. So much time you can waste it. But for some of us there’s only today. And the truth is, you never really know."
— Lauren Oliver, Before I Fall | Submitted by jessicaloveex3 (via quote-book)
(Source: parsletongue, via chloedandy)
"
When I said I wasn’t with another girl
the January after we fell in love for the 3rd time,
it’s because it wasn’t actual sex.
In the February that began our radio silence,
it was actual sex. I hate the tight shirts
that go below your waistline.
Not only do they make you look too young,
but then your torso is a giraffe’s neck attached to tiny legs.
I screamed at myself in the subway
for writing poems about you still.
I made a scene. I think about you almost
each morning, and roughly every five days, I still
believe you’re there.
I still masturbate to you.
When we got really bad,
I would put another coat of mop water on the floor of the bar
to make sure you were asleep when I got to my side of the bed.
You are the only person to whom I’ve lied, knowing
I was telling the truth. I miss the way your neck
wraps around my face like a cave we are both lost in.
I remember when you said being with me
is like being alone with company.
My friend Sarah wrote a poem about pink ponies.
I’m scared you’re my pink pony.
Hers is dead. It is really sad. You’re not dead.
You live in Ohio, or Washington, or Wherever.
You are a shadow my body leaves on other girls.
I have a growing queue of things I know
will make you laugh and I don’t know where to put them.
I mourn like you’re dead. If you had asked me to stay,
I would not have said no.
It would never mean yes.
— Jon Sands, A Working List of Things I Will Never Tell You (via holdonmagnolia)
(Source: theoryoflostthings, via livingwithendo)
"What bothers me about this latest flare-up is that it feels like just one more way for literary women writers to dismiss commercially successful women writers. It used to be a writer could just turn up her nose at chick lit, and say, ‘Oh, I don’t read those books, I don’t read books with that stuff on the cover, and I certainly don’t write books like that.’ Only now that nobody seems quite sure what chick lit is, and everyone has recognized that authors—especially female ones—don’t always have control over how their books end up looking, a new code word is required. That word has become likable. Calling a novel’s characters the L-word doesn’t just imply that the author in question is writing like a girl; it hints that she is writing like the wrong kind of girl—a dumb, popular, easy girl."
— Jennifer Weiner (”I Like Likable Characters: And I don’t like female novelists’ new method of dismissing other female writers.” [Weiner 2013])
(via alittlecoconuttart)
At first one, then another, then almost every member of the crowd touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out to me. It is an old and rarely used gesture of our district, occasionally seen at funerals. It means thanks, it means admiration, it means good-bye to someone you love.
(Source: senecah, via mynightmaresareaboutlosingyou)
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