You didn’t tell me pretty words,
you didn’t offer me peace and grace,
you went with me to the depths of
my shame and my anger.
you allowed me my darkness.
you allowed me to be real.
and it is in the dark realness of my soul
that my healing began.

-Unknown (via the-healing-nest)

(via iwasoutforstars)

397 notes


Sad black and white blog, I follow back similar x




More poetry and prose by Lang Leav here

I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mothers name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name. And if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mothers joy when she spoke it for the very first time. I want you tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. I wanna know what you see when you look in the mirror on a day you’re feeling good. I wanna know what you see in the mirror on a day a day you’re feeling bad. I wanna know the first person who ever taught you your beauty could ever be reflected on a lousy piece of glass. If you ever reach enlightenment, will you remember how to laugh? Have you ever been a song? See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving. And if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes through other people’s wounds. And if you dream sometimes that this life is just a balloon that if you wanted to you could pop—but you never would because you’d never want it to stop.

-Andrea Gibson (via soderso)

(Source: splitterherzen, via mylifeasamermaid)

6,587 notes

A minha mãe não sabe a filha que tem. Não sabe que já fiz chorar mais vezes do que me fizeram a mim. Que já parti mais corações do que as vezes que partiram o meu. Que me apaixono e desapaixono com a mesma facilidade com que me calo. Que já traí mais vezes do que fui traída.

Enquanto todos me dizem para ter cuidado com o que faço, não vá magoar alguém, a minha mãe continua a dizer para eu ter cuidado para não sair magoada. O que ela não sabe é que sair magoada é precisamente o que quero.

5 notes

  • Michelle: We were good, weren't we?
  • Tony: We were better than that.

3 notes


relevant relevant relevant relevant