She woke most mornings and reminded herself that she wasn’t the hero of a story, that she wasn’t trapped in the opening chapters of a mid-break act. She questioned where the interlude cards might go, where an omniscient narrator might ruminate on her early-morning vicambulations through the empty, rain-slicked streets. [sunken eyes cast downward] one such card might read. [i’d given up a very long time ago] might read another. [empty] for the change-over between reels.
Source: dyinginback
Tumblr Crushes:
I rarely need things, but I need a warmth beside me. I need hands, cold and trembling, tracing siguls in my hair, along my shoulders, down my spine. I need useless words whispered and weightless promises made.
Source: dyinginback
Nothing feels right. Nothing ever seems good enough. Enough might not even exist.
Source: dyinginback
And every day it’s this fight with myself, with this feeling that I’m just going to look up and dissolve like a chip of ice on a warm day, like a held breath moments from release.
Source: dyinginback
At what point do cynicism and hopelessness collide? At what point are frailty and impotent rage inseparable?
Source: dyinginback
I made the mistake of digging. I listened to old songs and photos that could at one time be called comforting. Everyone looks so happy in those pictures. The clothes are brighter, the faces softer, the bodies thinner, the smiles somehow real. And of course, the music does nothing. Nothing at all. Like thumbing at an exhausted lighter, waiting for fire when there’s nothing but flint sparks and a dry hiss. I tried digging in an attempt to answer the question I can’t seem to drop, When I did into such a cynical prick?
Source: dyinginback
It might make me a bad person, that I let you pour those things into my heart without telling you of the holes in its bottom. All that poison sluicing down my ribs. I couldn’t say a word.
Source: dyinginback
I wish only to convince you that there’s poetry in your every step.
Source: dyinginback
Sometimes it’s worrying, how little I actually feel.
Source: dyinginback
And I thought, No one wants to hear how alone they really are. But I kept reminding myself anyway.
Source: dyinginback
And some nights, some nights I’m just empty. Just a waste of feelings.
Source: dyinginback
And for a time I considered the quiet poetry of too many cigarettes and the tidal pull of precarious heights. You can die minutes at a time, I thought. Like emptying an ocean one pail at a time. But sometimes it’s not enough. I want my seabed to crack and leak. I want to flash, boil, and steam in one last magnificent night.
Source: dyinginback
GPOY: ’Look At This Grinning Jackass’ Edition
Jared is one of my favourite Tumbloggers, and I’m being a total creep and reblogging this photo. Hurrah.
Source: dyinginback
When it came to the whispering of sweet nothings as we cooled on top of the sheets, you chose Italian and I realized that they truly were nothing at all.
Source: dyinginback
