When he says
He doesn’t love you anymore,
Roll your shoulders back
And look him in the eye
Even when it feels like your ribs
Are breaking inward, like spider legs.
When he digs up old aches
That he swore he forgave you for,
Smile
And ask him why he didn’t leave you sooner.
Ignore the way the words feel like sandpaper
Running all the way up your throat to your mouth.
When he blames you
For mistakes that wear his face,
Do not scream.
Do not cry.
Tell him that there are boys
Who would be proud to say they’d loved you.
Tell him that in two years
You won’t even remember his name
And don’t let him see the way you can taste your own lie.
When he leaves
Ignore the howling in your blood
And do not get up after him.
Not even to lock the door.
Do not, do not
Do not.
Smell his shirts when you box them up
To give them back.
Not one.
Swear off dating when you realize
You’re chasing ghosts that wear his smile.
It’s okay to cry over him.
It’s even okay to forgive him.
But do not go back to him.
If he did not know how to love you the first time,
He won’t know how to do it the next.

How To Pretend It Doesn’t Hurt, by Ashe Vernon  (via 1811181)

(via br0kenn-angel)

(Source: latenightcornerstore)

I pity the woman who will love you
when I am done. She will show up
to your first date with a dustpan
and broom, ready to pick up all the pieces
I left you in. She will hear my name so often
it will begin to dig holes in her. That
is where doubt will grow. She will look
at your neck, your thin hips, your mouth,
wondering at the way I touched you.
She will make you all the promises I did
and some I never could. She will hear only
the terrible stories. How I drank. How I lied.
She will wonder (as I have) how someone
as wonderful as you could love a monster
like the woman who came before her. Still,
she will compete with my ghost.
She will understand why you do not look
in the back of closets. Why you are afraid
of what’s under the bed. She will know
every corner of you is haunted
by me.

Clementine von Radics

I am on a serious Clementine kick and this one punched me right in the face.

(via jerktopus)

Mouth like the lock on a jewelry
box. Mouth like a bruise,
like something that gets
under the skin.
Mouth like where the hell did she
come from?
Mouth like a marching band, like
a parade of sighs.
Mouth like she must be magic,
she must be.

Mouth like pick a card, any card.
Mouth like an opera. Mouth like
I don’t understand you but
I am crying, anyway.
Mouth like a river, like diving
head-first into it. Mouth like a
coffin you want to die in.
Mouth like you’ll never recover,
like nothing will ever be like this
again, and you’re sure of it.

Mouth like do you love her?
Mouth like do you love her or do
you just not want to kiss anyone
else?

Caitlyn Siehl, Mouth (via alonesomes)

f-e-f-e-t-a-c-a-k-e-s:

youphoric:

humans are so cute, when we say goodbye we put our arms around each other and to show we love someone we bring them flowers. we say hello by holding each other’s hand, and sometimes tiny little dewdrops form in our eyes. for pleasure we listen to arrangements of sounds, press our lips together, smoke dried leaves, get drunk off of old fruit. we’re all just little animals, falling in love and having breakfast beneath billions of stars

this is my favorite post

The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these qualities have little to do with success as we have defined it.

David W. Orr, Ecological Literacy: Educating Our Children for a Sustainable World (via wordsnquotes)

There is a fundamental reason why we look at the sky with wonder and longing—for the same reason that we stand, hour after hour, gazing at the distant swell of the open ocean. There is something like an ancient wisdom, encoded and tucked away in our DNA, that knows its point of origin as surely as a salmon knows its creek. Intellectually, we may not want to return there, but the genes know, and long for their origins—their home in the salty depths. But if the seas are our immediate source, the penultimate source is certainly the heavens… The spectacular truth is—and this is something that your DNA has known all along—the very atoms of your body—the iron, calcium, phosphorus, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, and on and on—were initially forged in long-dead stars. This is why, when you stand outside under a moonless, country sky, you feel some ineffable tugging at your innards. We are star stuff. Keep looking up.

Neil de Grasse Tyson   (via owls-love-tea)

(Source: nguyen-hoang-huy)

'And the road finally gave me back but I don't think I'll unpack, cause I'm not sure if I live here anymore.'

Bright Eyes (via werebetteroffdead)

realitymonster:

prokopetz:

prokopetz:

Rape is the only crime on the books for which arguing that the temptation to commit it was too clear and obvious to resist is treated as a defence. For every other crime, we call that a confession.

I’ve gotten more angry asks about this post than I have actual reblogs.

I’ll do my part to making sure this has more than enough reblogs to outweigh the angry asks.