I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.’Azra.T, My Heart is Full of Open Windows (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
Rachel C. Lewis, Tell The People You Love That You Love Them
I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, “Kiss me harder,” and “You’re a good person,” and, “You brighten my day.” I live my life as straight-forward as possible.
Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.
Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.
But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.
And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.
We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.
We never know when the bus is coming.
Sade Andria Zabala (surfandwrite) | The Story of How I Was Born
God lost a bet when he made me
this starving thing that can never be filled,
this lonely thing that will never be loved;
I call my demons on a first-name basis.
They taught me how to read without light,
how to sleep in a bed of pins and needles.
In a dream I heard
Satan told God that night, “I bet
you can’t raise the dead back to life!”
But joke’s on them.
I’ve been dead since I started breathing.
I write your name on everyyou tasted just as bitter too; Haley Hendrick (s-k-e-t-c-h-e-d)
cigarette I smoke to signify
that your kiss was just as
unhealthy as pressing my
lips to its filter.