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[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

1.She always thought he was an angel. With his halo made of metal,all sharp edges and unforgiving lines,made to sear the flesh of those that got too close, those that wished to know him truly. She remembered her first time trying. 2.His wings were made of barbed wire, made for scraping the floors,leaving broken and rancid dreams, made to scratch at the space between the bones on your back. Where your wings should be. Where hers should be. He can’t fly with them.He’s fallen so many times,she still has the dried blood beneath her skin. She still sees the smidges of hopelessness in those blue, blue eyes when she closes her own. 3.His voice is made up of supernovas and lightning strikes and it makes cracks in her bedroom walls every time he visits, cracks in the windows every time he comes to say goodnight. They nick her skin sometimes and he smiles, healing her with a kiss, lips stained red.

he was an angel/via @a-graveyard-ofstars/ j.m (via a-graveyard-ofstars)

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

Girls get turned on by some weird shit you could be writing ya name a certain way and they get hot

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

i dont know what im feeling but there is a lot of it

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

People describe depression as black. For me, it’s not like that. I would describe it as grey. The same kind of grey you see in a November sky, when the dullest months of winter have come to haunt you - and your eyes feel like leaden weights, wanting so desperately to close. Everything becomes colourless - beauty no longer exists. You are alone, and it’s hazy, and weird, and you can’t even begin to try and understand it - feeling you have lost a part of yourself, which you can never again reclaim. For me, it’s not black and white. It’s a slur. A blurry wave of emptiness and overwhelming grey. It feels like hell.

broken poetry (via br-o-ken-poetry)

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

I could crawl in to that lovely throat of yours. what would I spill in to it? what would I not spill. what unholy god would I name your darkness? feed me, I say every time someone shows you kindness you’re choking on emotions, on me curling in to the centre of your being blocking both air and tears, leaving fingernails moon-like pearls in to your skin.   this is the most quiet I can endure sadness. I can endure. Oh I don’t know what I’m hungry for - but I am, I am.

Camillea

For Lis @metvmorqhoses . for the inspiration & kindness she gives me. 

(via maelinoe)

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

have i told you guys about the time that i classically conditioned my kindergarten class

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

0405 - the day i met you

2606 - please stop

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

If she writes, don’t date her. A woman who writes will pay attention to the small details, the little moments. She will start to memorize the curves of your shoulders and the crescents of your collarbones, the way your words hopscotch side to side when you’re nervous and melt together when pronouncing her name. She will see everything through the lenses of metaphors, analogies, and comparisons- saying things like how her coffee that morning reminded her of your eyes, or how she heard a song on the radio that reminded her of the first time you told her you loved her. And she’ll write, write, write. That’ll be what you like most about her. Although there will be nights you wake up at 3am to an empty spot on the bed, you’ll know it’s because she’s writing about how beautiful you looked with your eyes closed. Do not date a woman who writes, because she will understand how to read between the lines. She’ll notice the way you lick your lips when you lie and the way your finger twitches when you feel guilty. She would have read enough books to know where this plot is heading, and so when the relationship ends, you’ll be left with nothing while she will at least be left with the cruel inspiration of heartbreak. Those beautiful love poems she used to keep stashed away in your pillowcase will become replaced with toxic words and heartbroken verses. She’ll write about how your mouth began to taste like deceit and your love began to feel like lies. You’ll go from being her cure to being the poison in her veins. She will live on forever as someone who saw the world as colors and details, while you’ll live forever on as just the boy who broke her heart many years ago.

A.F // Excerpt of a book I’ll never write #75 (via her-minds-a-mess)

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

You’re staring at him again,“ He sighs. “I’m not,” I reply. “Simply just gazed over in a direction and he was there.” “Then why was that look on your face?” “What?” I ask. “What look?” “You look a certain way when you see him,” He informs. “You look at him and it’s like you’re staring at some sort of galaxy.” “And?” He looks down. “You love galaxies.

E. Grin (via written-in-pen)

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

My throat gets caught when something reminds me of you. When our song comes on, or I pass by the place we had our first kiss. It gets stuck, and then suddenly my chest gets stuck too because these memories become infected with pictures of you, but not with me. With her. Her, with you, because it’s not me anymore. It’s her. You probably tell her that she’s beautiful, because she is and you’re kind like that. And you probably give her rides home in your stupid pickup, with your hand on her thigh because the space between you is too far. You probably reach up and touch her cheek gently, and then kiss her the way you kissed me, and then you probably pull away with the same look on your face that you had when you were with me; because you’re a romantic like that. You’ve probably already forgot about the nights we spent in the back of your truck, holding each other and staring stupidly into each other’s eyes murmuring stupid stuff that now torments me in my daydreams. And you’ve probably forgot about the fact that you used to love me the same way you love her now. You’ve probably forgot all about me, while I’m stuck here thinking all about you.

excerpt from a book I’ll never write (via sickwithwritersblock)

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

“I just like her so much, you know?” His eyes change colors like a kaleidoscope whenever he talks about her. I smile for his sake and nod. “Call me crazy,” he scratches the back of his head, “But I think I’m falling in love with her.” I try to hide the hurt flashing in my eyes, but he can read me better than anyone else. “Did I say something wrong?” He looks genuinely concerned. But what could I say? I love you? I’ve loved you for so much longer than she has? I could love you for the rest of my life? He was happy, and she made him that way. I couldn’t ruin that. “No,” I smile shyly. “It’s just the way you talk about her. She’s a lucky girl.”

Excerpt of a book I’ll never write #112 (via her-minds-a-mess)

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

i jut created an instagram account with the name stxrm.co. Will post my quotes there!

[everythingthathasasoulisdea-blog]

"You're my favorite." Yugyeom murmured off-hand. "Favorite what?" Emelyn wondered aloud. "Oh, well," And suddenly he was stammering, "Well, just that. My favorite pair of eyes to look into. My favorite name to see appear on my phone. My favorite way to spend an afternoon. Fill in the blank, Beautiful..I left it at favorite for a reason." "You're my favorite too." She whispers. And suddenly he was leaning in, locking his eyes with her, their nose brushing against eachother. "I might kiss you." He says in a hushed whisper. "That might be a bad idea." She smiled. Yugyeom scoffed lightly, "That's not possible. I think I'm in love with you." Silence engulfed them, "Now would be the time to say something." He said, not looking away. She drew a big breath, "I told you not to fall in love with me."

(via nys.mlh)