emma.

"A girl with many admirers one day received a box. Inside that box, another box carried six more boxes. Those boxes each had sixteen bags of teas she loved, all from a man she was not in love with. This box arrived in the company of a package that bent and a package that knocked. The package that bent was torn open with greedy fingers—a coveted book by a writer she loved, from a man she was not in love with. The package that knocked came open with some hesitation. Fingers, suddenly cold, trembled on the wrapping. A tiny box. Not gilded in velvet, as had been the girl’s dread, but simple. Brown. Inside it, the cause of the knocking, a tiny charm smaller than her right pinkie nail. Silver. Endearing. Molded by precise mechanics into the world’s tiniest latte. Engraved in the side of the embryonic mug, the word COFFEE in faerie-sized capital letters so the frozen silver contents could not be confused with tea or chai. She loved coffee. The man she was not in love with knew what she did love, and in his absence had meant the boxes as a message. In silence, with postage and packages in lieu of words, the message abbreviated was this: thank you for letting me into your world and showing me the things you surround yourself with, which are the things you love. thank you for surrounding yourself with me in the whiplash vertigo of a few days on a September calendar. I have not forgotten how you barricaded us from the world in a bunker of pillows you confessed were stolen. I have not forgotten your head on those pillows as our bare bodies touched and we spoke only truth. I remember the cracked spines of loved books on your borrowed shelf, for a moment forgotten as your sheets billowed around us like sails. I don’t know why you trusted a stranger with your secrets of old masks and cold hands of white gold unzipped from a wallet pocket because even though you hate that it happened you refuse to lose it. that trust is exactly what made you afraid of what you were feeling and we both know it because we aren’t strangers to scared, are we? there were three of us, lovers squeezed onto your bed that was never quite big enough to accommodate all of us: you, I, and the fear. I am so afraid I will not fall in love again but I want to because I am so afraid of growing old beyond what I can purchase and furnish to make life worth living. and you, bella, you are so afraid of falling in love again and you want desperately not to because to love means to dream and too dream is to want a future and to furnish that future with something worth growing old with, and you are so afraid of growing old because a thing which ages is a thing which does not die young, and all you know of love is that it dies young. but I am a fool and a dreamer and you are young and I can keep you safe, please let me keep you safe please let me please"

- The girl with many admirers drank her tea with honey and tasted guilt. (via deerborne)

(via gingerchicklookingforasoultohave)

Oct 21
ceyfe:

Last night is a blur, 2 (the quote is transparent so it matches your blog). Quote vs. Vincent van Gogh
Oct 21

ceyfe:

Last night is a blur, 2 (the quote is transparent so it matches your blog). Quote vs. Vincent van Gogh

(via extrasad)

aureat:

radical-illusion:

Water colours will be the death of me!

LIVVY FRICK U I HATE U THIS IS SO PRETTY TEACH ME ! ! ! !!1 !!
Oct 21

aureat:

radical-illusion:

Water colours will be the death of me!

LIVVY FRICK U I HATE U THIS IS SO PRETTY TEACH ME ! ! ! !!1 !!

(via mediocrespicecontrol)

Oct 21

(Source: brenditasez, via eritchi)

witch1996:

self portrait from last year
Oct 21

witch1996:

self portrait from last year

(via coolben94)

"when the anxiety in my blood beats like a drum and gets the better of me and i text him 20 times in 10 minutes to make sure he wasn’t in a fatal car crash, I’m “clingy” when the lead in my bones from the sadness spreads and gnaws on my joints and I can’t move from my bed, I’m “needy” when they see me in nothing but long sleeved flannels and denim bottoms that kiss my ankles for months on end, and they peel my sleeves off sitting on top of some hatred-stained mattress in the middle of the night only to see how I have treated my skin as a canvas that’s still cut open, I’m “one of those girls” they choke on the idea that they might be responsible for my own demise when I warn them that I have tendencies to stand on railway tracks and subway platforms with wet cheeks and shaking palms god, they crumble inwardly when the finger they hooked through the lace of that pink thong stops at my calves and they realize this is not how it seemed in the movies and in the magazines when they realize that my stocky striped thighs and scent of pink skin is their introduction to the real world beyond scripted soft porn, the sound of their heart breaking is shrill but mine is a monument collapsing because I have lost again and they will kiss me for good measure, lie and say they aren’t ready to caress me, to spend a night just side by side and throw on their leather jackets and head out the front door one last time and I will never hear from any of them again."

- he asked why people leave me like it was even a question//M.P. (via httprozac)

(via awkwardathenian)

Oct 21

"you chug a fifth of alcohol by yourself & everyone around you is too busy cheering to wonder how empty you had to be in order to do it"

- This fucked me up (via obsessiveloserr)

Wow ain’t this the truth

(via rexerse-paradox)

fuck

(via rexerse-paradox)

Oct 21
notsophiesworld:
Oct 20

notsophiesworld:

(via korin-aubrey)

Oct 20

(via korin-aubrey)

Oct 20

(Source: uzmama, via brink-shock)