"And when you called me sobbing that you had taken too many pills i screamed at you for hours even after you hung up and i called 911 and even after your mom told me youd be fine in a couple days because i thought if i screamed loud enough and cried big enough tears maybe you would realize that you didn’t have to be all alone you had me right there but instead you stopped talking to me because you were all too busy but you never seemed to remember to call me back later so now here i am sobbing because i’ve taken too many pills and before i would have called you but now i know you never would of screamed my name you would have told me you were busy and you’d call me back later well maybe i should call just so you can realize that sometimes later is too late because this time later i will be gone"
– I found this in my notebook from the night i overdosed (via kindoftiredd)

"I didn’t want you
to only fuck me,
I wanted you to
love me.

But I didn’t know what to
convince you with
besides my body."
Hot Winds, Holy Thoughts | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

(via ohhhcatherine)


"

Here it is: You have been touched so many times that a hand on your back doesn’t make you flinch anymore. Your legs spread effortlessly, your lips bloom, your hands turn to waterfalls.

We were seated across from each other, having a conversation about the weather, when his hand slipped under the table. Your eyes widened for a second and then you went right back to spitting up thunderstorms and floods.

I wonder the last time you were touched and felt something; when you didn’t just close your eyes, lie back, and hope it’d be over soon. You’ve told me story after story about the bedrooms you’ve seen. Boys who lived with their mothers. Men with shiny, modern lofts overlooking screaming cities. Women who decorated with candles and stacks of books. I wonder when you last brought someone into your bedroom and let them see something besides the smooth insides of your thighs. When they saw your journals, your dog-eared books, your photographs, your thoughts.

You are better at the language of sex than love. I get it. Sex is simple. The game of “grab your clothes and go” always plays out the same. There are rules and restrictions in it: don’t ask them to breakfast first, don’t leave anything behind, don’t text back, don’t get attached. Sex, when it’s just sex, is easy. It’s nothing. And that’s fine. But being wanted is one thing and being loved is another, and I wonder now if you say “I love you” with a shut mouth, shut eyes, and open thighs.

"
Being Wanted | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)

(via ohhhcatherine)


"Suddenly, every song was about you."
– loving you in six words (via geedragonnn)

(via ohhhcatherine)


"I’m homesick for arms that don’t want to hold me."
M.O.W, A ten word story - imwritingpoems (via perfect)

(via perfect)


I’m so sick of just existing. I want to do something. I want to be happy and joyful and involved and lovable. But all I am is sad and angry and dissociative and ugly.

It’s nights like this that make me want to get a bullshit prescription for pain medication. Take enough downers til I can’t hear the goddamn voices in my head.

"Don’t you dare
Tell me I’m perfect
If I’m not good enough
To make you want to stay."
– M.S. - coffee-crinkled-pages (via perfect)

(via perfect)