A year ago we stayed up till 3 am talking
And today I don’t know how to even say hey — (via gluecksfang)
(Source: esssence, via t--nspirit)
This is the truest thing ever
(Source: coriolanusn0w, via t--nspirit)
I miss you.
The sound of your voice made the hairs on my back stand up in realization that I fucking love you. Your voice was the only sound that I craved, and when I close my eyes I still seem to hear the sound of your beautiful hateful words in the back of my head. You were my home, but someone should have told me that you can’t make homes out of humans. You made hell turn into heaven, or maybe it was the idea of you.
(Source: orangepowerranger, via ellieblah)
He’ll grab your waist and whisper in your ear but six months later you’ll find yourself drunk texting him that you miss him and he won’t respond. —
Unknown (via c-oquetry)
(Source: sureth-ng, via t--nspirit)
When your side chick tries to take a picture with you…
(Source: codeddenominator, via onyxair)
(Source: ihope-youlike-me-as-i-am, via iknowyoure-lonelylikeme)
(Source: viewfromthetent, via iknowyoure-lonelylikeme)
It’s July and my existence has been sixteen years of saying sorry before I speak. I’ve spent too many summer nights staying up late talking to boys that were staying up for other girls. I leave without saying goodbye. I’m in the middle of four different books. I can’t finish things.
I leave the shower with shampoo in my hair. I leave my keys in the lock. I say thank you when people say I love you. When people like me, I want to ask them why.
I’m sixteen and I’m too young to be worrying that no one will fall in love with me. I’m sixteen and I’ve spent a year in recovery figuring out that I don’t actually want to die because turning into a ghost won’t solve all my problems.
I never wanted to die, I just wanted to escape. So I tightened my fists, toughened my skin, took a deep breath and went straight through the storm to the other side.
Flash forward two months, I’ll be seventeen. I will no longer apologize for existing. I’ll be seventeen and it’s about time I told you, I’m not sad anymore.
The thing they forget to tell you about storms is that even though you can’t see sunlight for miles, it’s still sunny somewhere else in the world. — 8:52 a.m. (An autobiography of 16 years)