One day, whether you
are 14,
28 
or 65

you will stumble upon
someone who will start
a fire in you that cannot die.

However, the saddest,
most awful truth
you will ever come to find––

is they are not always
with whom we spend our lives.

Beau Taplin, "The Awful Truth" {Hunting Season – 28 copies left}  (via sne)

(via infinitestages)

May 16th// 11:08 pm
“Hey, I guess you’re asleep. Call me back when you wake up”

July 24th// 5:04 am
“Wake up I miss you”

September 8th// 2:09 am
“I just wanted to hear your voice”

September 8th// 2:16 am
“Okay listen. I think I might be in love with you please call me back.”

October 11th// 5:42 pm
“Baby girl I love you, I’m so happy you’re mine I’ll see you tonight.”

November 29th// 8:06 am
“You’re still asleep and you’re the most beautiful thing in the world. I can’t wait to get home and see you. I can’t wait to kiss you.”

December 12th// 9:16 am
“Look I’m sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean it. I still love you princess. I love you. I’m sorry. I just.. I love you alright. Call me back when you can.”

January 15th// 4:06 pm
“I’m out and I saw something that made me think of you so I thought I would call you. I miss your voice.”

January 18th// 9:12 am
“Baby get dressed, I’m picking you up in 15, let’s run away.”

January 23rd// 8:47 pm
“Oh god your mother hates me”

February 14th// 3:06 pm
“Happy Valentine’s day I love you more than anything. You’re the world. You’re everything good. I’d let you swallow me whole. I like the way you look when you’re tired. I hate it when you cry. I’ll see you” tonight baby.”

February 24th// 12:09 am
“I’m sorry.”

April 8th// 4:06 am
“Hey… I need to come over and get the rest of my stuff.”

13 voicemails you left me  (via dolenti)

(via dolenti)

(via venus-as-agirl)

The Chardon High School shooting occurred on February 27, 2012, at Chardon High School in Chardon, Ohio, United States. Three male students died within the two days following the incident. Two other students were hospitalized: one of whom sustained several serious injuries requiring extensive rehabilitation, the other with a minor injury.

While rumors of a warning of the event having been posted on the Internet circulated, student witnesses identified the shooter as Thomas “T. J.” Lane III, a 17 year-old juvenile.  The weapon Lane used in the shooting was a .22 caliber handgun.  At an initial court hearing, the prosecutor revealed that he admitted to shooting 10 rounds of ammunition from the gun during the shooting, which began in the school cafeteria at approximately 7:30 a.m., shortly after school began.  Although Lane told police that he did not know the victims and that they were chosen randomly, witnesses stated that it appeared he targeted a specific student and the group he was sitting with in the cafeteria.

On March 19, 2013, Lane was sentenced to three life sentences in prison without parole.  After entering the courtroom, he took off his dress shirt to reveal a white T-shirt underneath which had the word “Killer” handwritten across the front.  He smiled and smirked during the hearing.  After being sentenced, Lane said to the victims’ families and the courtroom, "This hand that pulled the trigger that killed your sons now masturbates to the memory. Fuck all of you", while giving the middle finger.

(via inhaleaggression)

I am the kind of person who would miss a train or a plane to meet you for coffee. I’d take a taxi across town to see you for ten minutes. I’d wait outside all night if I thought you would open the door in the morning. If you call me and say ‘Will you…’ my answer is ‘Yes’, before your sentence is out. I spin worlds where we could be together. I dream you.

Jeanette Winterson  (via kyouminai)

(via f0rcedhell0s)

I’m meeting boys who like Charles Bukowski and they all want to do brutal things to my body. They tell me they buy a bottle of whiskey whenever they get one of his books and don’t stop reading till they’ve gone through a pack of cigarettes. They blow smoke in my face and say, “He was the outcast king of L.A. Did you know that, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” I say,“He’s great.”

A new boy gives me a worn copy of On the Road and thinks he’s being original. “We should explore the road together. Would you like that, baby?” I take a sip of my water and look away. Yes, I’d like that, I think. But he’s drunk and imagining himself sixty years earlier, in the back of a bar, sweating to the sound of live bop. Still, I prefer him to the hungry boy that devoured my shirt and said, “You have a tattoo? What’s it say?” ‘mad to live?’ What, are you angry about living? Aw, I’m just kidding, come here, let me take off that bra.”

The next boy I kiss doesn’t read. I ask him to come to a bookstore with me and he stays outside, sighing. He has no interest in words. He has no interest in me. I am thankful for him. For a few weeks, I am able to shed my habit of thinking obsessively and become a duller, rougher version of myself. I dump him when my fingers start turning imaginary pages in my sleep.

I go on a date with a boy who knows I like to write. He calls himself a fan of mine and swears he’s read every word I’ve put down. “You’ve got this voice that’s very modern, but also so classic.” I choke on my water as he says, “I read you to fall asleep.” At night, I listen to him pant metaphors and compare my mouth to the sea. One day, he stumbles across my journal and finds nothing about himself in it. “You don’t really love me, do you?” I shake my head. There is no use pretending anymore. He has read my poems about the boys I want to drown in me. His goodbye leaves my hands covers in ink. He wanted me so badly to be the sea, when all I am is a girl who writes poetry.

I try my best to become poetry. I take a bath and stain the water with black ink. I cut my hair in a motel sink. I cry for people I have never met. I start smoking cigarettes. I use words like “presumptuously” and talk about “post-modernist new wave.” I walk the streets at 4 a.m. and smile at people coming home from a rave. I wear sunglasses indoors. I carry a 500 page volume of poems wherever I go. I drink coffee instead of water. I talk about the “advantages of using film and listening to records.” But no matter how hard I try, I am not the sea. I am a sunken ship that has drowned in everyone who touched me.

I Am Not The Sea | Lora Mathis   (via farahmarinara)

(via f0rcedhell0s)

#love  #unlovable  #poem  

You want the sad truth?
Even if I forget you,
I’ll always miss you.

Haiku on Memory

(via hopeforfreedom)