curiosity killed the cat

but satisfaction brought it back. //

We're finding our own tonight.
we're single spies when sorrow comes
they come on battalions.
we're finding our own tonight,
a little light to keep it on, our own battalion
~ Tuesday, September 30 ~
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Note to self, forever and ever :

supchristine:

Just because you miss the way someone used to make you feel, doesn’t mean you miss that person.


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~ Monday, September 29 ~
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I wonder how you can look at anything and not feel your knees shake from the memory of it. I have been in your bed and cradled between your palms and your knees, in your shower and in the patch of sunlight that touches your room just before noon. Your sheets and your hair and your hips. Your lazy Saturday morning smile isn’t yours anymore. It’s mine. Look, there, you can see me. There’s my ghost. She’s waving at you. She’s saying ‘boy, you’ll need to burn this entire place down if you want to forget what happened here.’ She’s saying ‘man, all the ways we loved is splattered across these walls like murder.’
The People You Loved Live Inside All The Places They Touched, Azra T. (via notebookings)

(Source: 5000letters)


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~ Sunday, September 28 ~
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tarntino:

i never want to get married and have kids i want to be 40 and a highly successful director and show up to my high school reunion dressed entirely in yves saint laurent with blood red lipstick and louboutin heels that could penetrate a man’s soft flesh in the current year’s bmw convertible and wear chanel sunglasses the entire time even while indoors so i don’t have to hold eye contact with the little people


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Nothing makes us as lonely as our secrets.
— Paul Tournier (via onlinecounsellingcollege)

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~ Saturday, September 27 ~
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The Things You Let Me Keep (2014)

(Source: velorums)


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~ Friday, September 26 ~
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We will love like dogwood.
Kiss like cranes.
Die like moths.
I promise.
— Larissa Shmailo, “Spring Vow”  (via spiderjerusalems)

(Source: oofpoetry)


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Last night I dreamt that I broke all your teeth
with my bare knuckles,
left your liar’s mouth bleeding and raw.
I tore that smile off your face,
I stuffed it down your throat.
Your love was like a dust bowl, dry cracked dirt
staining beige over my bones,
kissing hard ground and scorched throat,
kissing sunburnt skin.
I told the priest to soak my body in holy water,
to exorcise you with Latin chants and incense smoke.
I told the healer fix me, get him out of my skin.
I told the doctor I would swallow all the pills if it meant
that I could learn to breathe again,
could taste the air without your mouth on mine.
I told the poet, write me better.
Write me happy.
Write me whole again.
— All These Words Still Taste Like You | d.a.s (via backshelfpoet)

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~ Tuesday, December 31 ~
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(Source: vintagegal)


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