❛   Grief is a wild animal howling inside of you.
Can you hear it trying to tear its way out?
Feel its teeth scratching across the
inside of your ribs. You
try to tame this beast, feed it
raw meat everyday. It soon grows
bored and eats you instead.
It is dark in this belly. Empty and sharp.
You are the only thing in it.
This is the way it must be.
This is the way it will always be.
+

LION HEARTED,

Venetta O. (via medeae )


❛   You are not weak. You are full of spines and wars, scars and fire. You are fighting to carry a heart so heavy even Atlas cannot hold it up. There is all of this quiet, drowning kind of falling apart inside you and yet you are still breathing. You are still here. You are still here.
❛   I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces just to form a constellation to light your way home. I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself you can’t stand. I’d stand in the shadows of your heart and tell you I’m not afraid of your dark.
+ Andrea Gibson, Slip Your Mind (via teenager90s)

briisingr:

                   i would rather  ＤＩＥ  on my ƒєєт
                   than  l ι v e  on my   KNEES
                                                                                  ( ᶤᶠ ᶤ ᶜᵃᶰ'ᵗ ᵇᵉ ᶠʳᵉᵉ )


❛   The crucial thing is to find a truth which is truth for me, to find the idea for which I am willing to live and die.
+ Soren Kierkegaard (via philosophybits)

❛   hiraeth
+ (hɨraɪ̯θ), noun | A Welsh, untranslatable feeling, hiraeth is loosely described as a homesickness for a home you cannot return to anymore or a place, which never even existed. Connotations of sadness, yearning, profound nostalgia, and wistfulness are imbued into the state of hiraeth. Overall this beautiful, but painful longing is a an expression of an empty desire and grief over a past life or place. It is the ultimate signifier of a bond which has ceased to exist.   (via mirroir)

❛   I loved the smell of ocean water. Salt always smells like memory.
+ Sherman Alexie, What You Pawn I Will Redeem (443)

❛   All people are driven
to the point of eating their gods
after a time: it’s the old greed
for a plateful of outer space, that craving for darkness,
the lust to feel what it does to you
when your teeth meet in divinity, in the flesh,
when you swallow it down
and you can see with its own cold eyes,
look out through murder.
+ Margaret Atwood, “Eating Snake” Interlunar (via honeychurch)

aajentamuu:








                       give me   ᴀ   ᴄ ʜ ᴀ ɴ ᴄ ᴇ   to prove   ᴍ ʏ   ᴡ ᴏ ʀ ᴛ ʜ