thexfiles:

remember when florence welch opened a song with “at seventeen i started to starve myself / i thought that love was a kind of emptiness” and your heart felt two tons heavy 

delicateskin:

I may be dead but my sex drive sure isn’t

lifeinpoetry:

One day, we will again promise, we will drink tap water
mixed with salt in an effort to clean out our throats,
we will no longer chart our ribs with a marker,
we will no longer shake from the sight of stars.
At night, we will comb each other’s hair and get drunk on
         nothing,
and one day, we will open our eyes, we will again love,
our bodies will never again be broken and we will
step into the dawn with nothing in our hands, we will
let our scars turn into small birds.

— Brynne Rebele-Henry, from “Self-portrait with needles & a broken mouth,” Autobiography of a Wound

memoryslandscape:

“I nodded with deep understanding, having mourned my own list of things that don’t seem to be in the stars of this life,”

— Frank LaRue Owen, from “Practice-Ground,” The School of Soft-Attention (Homebound Publications, 2018)