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florida natural spring water

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kissing your forehead because i love your weird brain

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Warsan Shire, from “Backwards”, Bless the Daughter Raised by a Voice in Her Head

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all i want is tattoos and to be hot as fuck

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Sun bleached flies,

One day, in a Sunday, it just hits you.

You’re doing the same thing you did 3 years ago, but it feels different. There’s something in your gut that tells you that you’ll never be the same. And the certainty that comes with it, reluctantly speaking, certainly crushes you. It drips down your shoulder blades and strikes you with softness right down your spine, like the whisper of someone you loved before or the summer breeze that ruffles your dress in the beach as the sun sets. The truth is, even if you know it, you wish everybody knew you tried. Time runs through your fingers and rinses the pain and wounds you had. People leave and now, every room in the house that inhabits your chest, is reached by light but it’s dim. It’s warmer than before. You still wish. You still yearn, now silently, for a life that’s better and less raged.

You wish you weren’t like this.

You wish you weren’t this painful, dumb, ignorant and rage of a person. You wish you managed a lot of situations better and with love. But you were just mad. You wish you weren’t this hurt and be a little better.

What you wouldn’t give, just to feel better for a second as you close your eyes and stand in the dark unknown alone?

You hear about stories of success and reconciliation and wonder if that’s possible to you. You wonder if the perception others have of you is not a mistaken version of you. You wonder if they would love you as you flinch every single time someone tries to come close. You’re certainly a version of your mom’s pain and your dad’s regret and rage. You crawl back to find yourself still hoping. Still hoping, still hoping, still hoping

You wish.

You yearn for it.

You watch by the sidelines and want it for yourself: love, love that just happens, love that doesn’t hurt nor run away. Alone, the house that inhabits you, has a hall full of memories of people that are just simply gone. Nails full of blood from fighting, voice almost gone from screaming. Is this what I’ll ever know?

God loves you, certainly, you say to yourself. But is he saving you by redirection?

And you bend. Almost breaking.

Sunday nostalgia truly wrecks you in the afternoon.

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I feel more than I've ever felt, and I've found someone to feel with, to play with, to love, in a way that feels right for me. I hope he knows that I can see that he suffers, too. And that I want to love him. Secretary (2002) dir. Steven Shainberg

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“Where exactly do you put your hands on somebody who hurts everywhere?”

— Charles D’Ambrosio, The Dead Fish Museum: Stories

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Hammersmith Bridge by Jennie

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Twin Peaks, Episode 26 “Variations on Relations” (1991) dir. Jonathan Sanger

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fucking whatever man. [my plumbob changes from green to red instantly]

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Julia Wolf - In My Room

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by margarida.sa.maia