sovietnam:

(via triptihosmrti)

bernard-jackson:

(via triptihosmrti)

sacred-portal:

this account is like a mausoleum for the sad person i used to be

i’m still gonna keep it around for memories and interiors inspo tho

fitter happier goes harder now than it ever could have when i was 14

sex makes me sick

coping with a breakup the only way i know how, impulsively downloading jakewolfs entire disccography at 3 am

jovialtorchlight:

does anyone know when they only have an hour left?

do they take a sip from their iced coffee

turn the radio all the way up

and know a box truck will cross the center line

in a few miles?

my brain blares sirens,

tells me every day is an ending

every hour is the last of the world.

every day ends quietly

and sometimes I think I’ve already died.

Starved myself waiting for the last moments.

Smothered my mind making unneeded peace.

Should I empty out? Should I drain what’s good?

I want my death to have meaning, I want

this narrative to stop with a clear arch

and a clean ending. But to live is to write,

and to die a small death is to erase from the page,

or worse, leave it blank. I have spent so much

time mythologizing my pain, cataloging it.

I cannot live in a myth. No one knows the last hour. It comes, takes, and leaves a broken body without a spirit.

I will not kill my spirit and remain alive. That is more painful than dying.

I will not prepare myself. I will not be made clean. When I die, I will be imperfect. I may not get better before the end;

but at least I will be full up and bright.