Sophie. Black hair. 16. Female. Bisexual. Self-harmer.
I'm crazy, weird, a dreamer, just me.
Music is my religion. Music is my escape.
I tend to fuck up everything.
"The yesterday that was torn away hurts♫"
I find it hard to trust people because they tend to leave me in the end.
If you don't like me or my blog, there's an unfollow button for a reason.
I am a follower of To Write Love On Her Arms.
Having social anxiety is like waking up and battling a bear every morning and then having people tell you it’s not that big a deal because they had to deal with a chihuahua humping their leg once.
This is one of the most accurate things I’ve ever seen.
(via p-roductofamurderer)
“I raped that test in math cla–” No.
“I raped that game earli–” Stop.
“The other team totally raped us tod–” Shut the fuck up.
Do you see what you’re doing?
YOU ARE MAKING RAPE SOUND LIKE A POSITIVE ACTION.
YOU ARE EQUATING SEXUAL VIOLENCE WITH ACHIEVEMENTS.STOP.
(Source: savedmyselffromthedragon, via musicalhogwarts)
*asks ouija board what’s for dinner*
*finger slides to the d*
(via cinnamon-death)
"
I love incorrectly
There is a solemnity in hands,
the way a palm will curve in
accordance to a contour of skin,
the way it will release a story.
This should be the pilgrimage.
The touching of a source.
This is what sanctifies.
This pleading. This mercy.
I want to be a pilgrim to everyone,
close to the inaccuracies, the astringent
dislikes, the wayward peace, the private
words. I want to be close to the telling.
I want to feel everyone whisper.
After the blossoming I hang.
The encyclical that has come
through the branches
instructs us to root, to become
the design encapsulated within.
Flesh helping stone turn tree.
I do not want to hold life
at my extremities, see it prepare
itself for my own perpetuation.
I want to touch and be touched
by things similar in this world.
I want to know a few secular days
of perfection. Late in this one great season
the diffused morning light
hides the horizon of sea. Everything
the color of slate, a soft tablet
to press a philosophy to.
"No matter how careful you are, there’s going to be the sense you missed something, the collapsed feeling under your skin that you didn’t experience it all. There’s that fallen heart feeling that you rushed right through the moments where you should’ve been paying attention. Well, get used to that feeling. That’s how your whole life will feel some day. This is all practice."
Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters (via dulcetdecember)"
And this is how we danced: our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August
turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers
sweeping through my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned
to heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart
there are two headless people building a burning house.
In case of rain, there was always the shotgun
above the fireplace. Always another hour to kill—only
to beg some god to return the seconds. If not the attic,
the car. If not the car, the dream. If not the boy, his clothes.
If not alive, put down the phone. Because the year
is a distance we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say:
this is how we danced: alone in sleeping bodies.
Which is to say: this is how we loved: a knife on the tongue
turning into a tongue.
(via inkywings)
