I love that sweet smell of decay that surrounds me in forests and woods. A kind of mulchy, deep, rich rot that has no connotation of death or ending, but rather of life and age. A sense of perpetual destruction and rebirth.

Unknown (via natural-magics)

Good pick up line: Nice shirt, I love that band.

Better pick up line: Nice shirt, I'm in that band.

I.
When it is time for
the walk home, remember to
hold your head up.

If you can’t, sit down until

you find the strength for it.

II.
Walk like pepper spray, like
don’t fucking touch me, like
don’t make me use this.
Walk like the knife in your
pocket is in your hands,
like you were born with
it there, because weren’t you?

III.
If your body can’t just be a body,

then it can at least be a weapon.

It can at least be yours.

IV.
They tell you to
be careful.

They tell your brother to 
be good.

V.
Why won’t they let
you be dangerous?
Why won’t they let
you be scary?
Don’t they know?
Don’t they?

Caitlyn Siehl, The Walk Home (via alonesomes)

People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed, and redeemed; never throw out anyone.

Audrey Hepburn (via larmoyante)

super1eklectic:

infamousnfamous:

“Hey sexy lemme talk to you”“No thanks”“MAN FUCK YOU YOU UGLY ANYWAY HO I WAS JUST PRETENDING TO LIKE YOU 1 CAN GET 3 MORE BITCHES THAT LOOK BETTER THAN YOU”

super1eklectic:

infamousnfamous:

“Hey sexy lemme talk to you”
“No thanks”
“MAN FUCK YOU YOU UGLY ANYWAY HO I WAS JUST PRETENDING TO LIKE YOU 1 CAN GET 3 MORE BITCHES THAT LOOK BETTER THAN YOU”

(Source: everythingrhymeswithalcohol)

TO THE GUY IN THE BACK OF THE ROOM COMPLAINING ABOUT LISTENING TO ANOTHER RAPE POEM

brennatwohy:

When people ask me why
it took two years of writing poems
to write this poem
to write the rape poem,
I will tell them all about you.

How you watch this stage
the same way you watch CSI,
you already know what’s coming next,
it’s just another mangled body,
I am just another hit…

In your anger and your despair and your glorious, glorious youth
do not discount the idea of soul mates.

Discount the idea of a singular soulmate.

You still have way too much to learn
to be taught by one person. It’s going to take a lot of time.
It’s going to take a lot of long nights
and willing mouths.

And you might
curse the one who teaches you what it feels like
to cry at the bottom of the shower in the middle of the night
but it is important to learn how to get back up on your own feet
and let the wolf in your throat howl at the moon
once in a while.

Spit out the name of the one who teaches you how to let go.

Keep every love note from the one who shows you
how to want yourself only when he stops calling you.
Use them like blueprints when you forget
what it sounds like to ache.

They’re not all gonna be bad. Some of them burn.
Some of them feel like sinking into the heavy belly of the sun
and sure, sure. You never come away from something like that
without a few burn marks

but I promise it’s worth the warmth.

Remember, every time you think you’ve found “the one”,
there’s probably going to be just one more.

And you’re still gonna love every single damn one of them
like they were the most important sucker on the planet.
In this life, you’re going to love like pulling teeth,
(one after another)
and that’s okay.

I promise it’s all right.

"RE: I Thought I Found ‘The One’", Trista Mateer (via womanwithanopinion)

(Source: tristamateer)

When death reached out its hand,
you should have cowered. When you felt the
flames of hell licking at your insides, you were not
supposed to draw closer to the fire.
I watched you disembowel the Earth, saw you pluck
flowers from your mother’s garden and gouge
your fingers into its open wounds,
trying to pry secrets out from the soil.
Everything green started to shrivel
and die when I entered the meadow, but you didn’t
flinch away; instead you kissed me voracious,
like I was something dark you’d tugged
out of reluctant soil.
I wanted your hands, still caked in dirt,
pressing into my naked back.
I thought you’d understand me. Both of us
wanting what we shouldn’t. I know your mother
must have warned you about gods like me.
Tell her I am not a selfish lover. Tell her how
I kneel at your altar and crush the berries
of your hips into wine. That I worship you.
That we spread each other open like flowers
blooming in the night. You wanted to see
what paradise looked like drenched in moonlight,
so I brought you home with me.
When you stood before the gates of hell,
all the beasts lowered their heads
and bowed at your feet.
Everything I have belongs to
you — my wife, my queen.
You are so much flesh and blood,
so much heaving, pulsing, breathing life.
You make the death in me tremble.
I am forever yours.

'Hades' | Anita O. (via deeplystained)