dreams-and-starlight

Inside my heart, there is a little jar. Cork stopper, made of glass, Filled with a swirl of emotions. Jealousy. Greed. Anger. Sadness. All the things I'm afraid to let out. All the things I'm afraid to express. All the things I'm afraid to show to the world. And I don't. Until my Pandora's Box Explodes with the sheer amount that is stored inside. And then the jar is repaired and the process begins again.

how much of me can you swallow, love before you finally purge? I am a cartographer of bad experiences; I can locate precisely where I see our divergence extraordinaire and I can tell you before I have even met you that the skin on my hands is too dry for the softness you plan on caressing me with. let me tell you how this ends; I will show you all the people I have destroyed - flooded to the best of my ignorance, driven wild with jealousy, had whipped with lust and left smoking pot after four promises stating otherwise. let me tell you how this ends; after showing you the blessed catastrophe it is to be human, you will destroy me. you may

I really hate the way she lies. She says she’ll listen, but she won’t. She promises she’ll be there, but she isn’t. She tells me it wasn’t her, but it was. I don’t hate her you know. I just hate everything she is, everything she does. Her smug smile. Her mud brown hair. Her green eyes with a drop of evil. The way she knows how to hurt me. The way she can make me cry. The way she likes it. She knows me too well. She knows how to hurt me. Knowledge is power and power corrupts. She’s the most corrupt person I know. But I can’t hate her; not entirely. After all, hating yourself isn’t healthy

 Mr. Glenn’s wife died the day before last. Of course, now all their children could talk about was what she would have wanted. “She would want a proper burial,” Gary, the eldest, said. “In the cemetery at Memorial Park,” Martin said. Gary shook his head. “Much too crowded there. She wouldn’t want to knock elbows with anyone. She would prefer be buried in the Green Meadows Cemetery.” “No,” Lisa Marie said, slapping her hand against Mr. Glenn’s antique table. “She wouldn’t want a grave. If she was here, she’d tell us to cremate her and spread her ashes a

nine reasons why you should never love a poet: one. we like to hear things like 'you're beautiful' and 'i'd die without you' but deep inside we always know you don't mean it. and it just tears us apart slowly, no matter how much we love those poisonous lies. two. and when you ask 'are you okay?', we're going to answer with 'i'm fine'. and you'll hear that even if our bones are shattering inside of us and our hands are trembling from all the hurt that we go through. three. because we play our music too-loud-to-bear so that, when we're all alone, it chases away the thoughts that come with the silence: things that haun

I'm not the marrying kind.
 I have stones in my hair instead of flowers, And a rosebush of thorns is more poignant to me.

 I'm not the marrying kind.
 My words aren't pretty or wise, And I can't sing about anything but a broken heart. 

I'm not the marrying kind.
 I am the sort of damaged you see in an old recorder, And the kind of old in an instrument that breaks into a billion pieces at a touch.

 I'm not the marrying kind.
 Neither neat, nor tidy, nor correct in my behavior, And yes, I did in fact tell you to fuck yourself.

 I'm not the marrying kind.R

Him, in the very beginning: He is eighteen when he gets his death sentence. Unlike most death sentences, this one isn't going to send him to the guillotine or maybe the noose. Instead, it's handed to him by a doctor with very clean hands in a stark white room probably very similar to the one he'll end up dying in. And it's not the type of death sentence carried out by an impassive executor. He's essentially going to kill himself. He is dying from the inside out. He mumbles something at the doctor, and suddenly he is on the street, a white piece of paper fisted and crumped in his hands. He's grateful it has the prescription written on it in