"Give me the pieces,
I will put myself
back together.
And there is no doubt
in my mind that
these things
must get better.
I know it’s alright
to give up the fight;
I have always heard
that no one makes it
out of love alive."

Mariah Gordon-Dyke (via larmoyante)

(Source: venula, via larmoyante)


There’s a strange feeling that sometimes overcomes us when we’re reaching out to someone, this feeling of acute embarrassment. “Are we bothering them?” we ask ourselves, and almost wanting to apologize for even sending a message in the first place. It’s as though our very presence in their lives is a nuisance, and our efforts to connect as friends or lovers is one that only complicates things for them. We want to say, “I’m sorry that I want to talk to you, it’s weird and I should probably stop.”

The thing is, you can feel when you’re bothering someone. It’s not difficult to tell when you are the one who is always reaching out, always initiating contact, always starting the conversation. You realize in a way that is at once terribly humiliating and almost masochistically sweet that you are the one chasing after them. When they grant you with their reciprocity, with their attention — nothing feels better. But most times you are left sending a message that you immediately regret, because you know that it only puts one more tallymark in the “you need them, and not the other way around” column.

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A blog for those who want to improve their craft.: For the Queer Girls who Dream of Drowning (Lindsay Miller)


Fast forward ten years. The first thing you will notice is that you are taller. Not necessarily farther from the ground, but closer to the sky. This may at first be dizzying, especially if you never learned how to breathe. Practice. Meet your lungs. Take note of the way your skin fits, how your…

"She’s mad, but she’s magic."

Charles Bukowski   (via elevenin)

(via disc0rd)

New York, I love you.

May 26th, 2012.

May 26th, 2012.