The purpose of literature is to turn blood into ink.
― T.S. Eliot (via feellng)

I am winter, but I wish I was spring.

I used to dream of love, but now I dream of nothing.

I thought I wanted to find you, but now I just want to be found.

I am growing numb to love, when I wish I was warmed by it.

I don’t know anymore.

― T.B. LaBerge // Unwritten Letters to You (via tblaberge)
Even on the good days,
he is a mountain I can’t climb.
A bridge I can’t get over.
His spine means sacrifice.
Means look at all the ways
I stretched myself out for you.
Look at all the ways it wasn’t enough.
It’s my fault for showing him
the wolves in my belly.
The moons I swallowed
until my stomach howled
from the weight of it all.
He carried carnivals
in his hands and kissed me
like he was on top of
a Ferris wheel every time.
Like he saw the world from
where he was standing.
He still loves me,
I understand,
but he is someone else’s
best poem now.

To that person I’d like to say:
I’m sorry for the stars I painted on
the inside of his eyelids.
I wanted him to see
galaxies growing through my skin.
even when he was asleep.
I miss him terribly,
and I loved him terribly, I know,
but I hope you bring the
prince in him back to life.
I’m sorry about the dragons
I left behind.
― Y.Z, my mountain boy, I hope you’re well (via rustyvoices)
I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind.
J.K. RowlingHarry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
Even if you know what’s coming, you’re never prepared for how it feels.
― Natalie Standiford, How to Say Goodbye in Robot (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)
Every introvert alive knows the exquisite pleasure of stepping from the clamor of a party into the bathroom and closing the door.
― Sophia Dembling, The Introvert’s Way: Living a Quiet Life in a Noisy World  (via h-o-r-n-g-r-y)