19. Artist. Wanderer.

I'm Jim Morrison's lesbian bastard.



I love seeing other lesbians in public like hello yes I am of your kind

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)


"so she’s gay now?"

yeah she turned it all the paperwork last week and her acceptance letter came this morning, it was all pretty sudden

Afraid of being exposed, dying to be seen — there’s a dilemma for you.

The Human Stain (Philip Roth)

Lord Hardened Pharaohs Heart

I’m an asshole a complete asshole.
I talk to girls and make myself believe that I love them or care for them.
I love them at 150 mph and then slam the brakes.
I’m a contradiction.
A fucking ironic contradiction.
I’m a joke.
I can detach myself so easily from people.
Emotions mean nothing.
I loved a girl once.
I kissed her.
I fucked her.
I woke up every morning to call her and tell her I love her.
Then I just stopped talking to her.
I think of her from time to time but I have no capacity of love for her.
The fucking hilarious part is,
All of my favorite movies are epic love stories.
I love romance.
I am a hopeless fucking romantic.
I believe in love at first sight.
I believe in past lives and finding your soul mate.
I believe in other halves.
I believe in being in love.
How do I even exist?
How do I exist by being able to attach and detach the way I do and still be in in love with the idea of love?
All the while Sam smiths stay with me is playing in the living room and it reminds me of you…and I hear your voice again but it’s fading because the demons laughing inside me are much louder.
And once again my heart is hard.




“According to Greek mythology, humans were originally created with four arms, four legs, and a head with two faces. Fearing their power, Zeus split them into two separate beings condemning them to spend their lives in search for their other halves.”

~Plato’s The Symposium.

How many times will I reblog this? “Always.”

We did it at school. The myth also says that the pairings could be male/female, male/male or female/female (just sayin’)

sometimes you don’t need to find someone else

(Source: eternalseptember)