Don't take me home, i dont have one.
"It’s a lot easier to be angry at someone than it is to tell them you’re hurt."
Tom Gates (via golden-needle)

(Source: hellanne, via daz3d-and-confused)


Maybe we’ll meet again one day when you’re not so broken and I’m not so jealous. Maybe one day we’ll be right for each other and it won’t be so hard for you to love me. I really hope that one day we’ll reconnect because no one has ever caught my heart in quite the same way.

But that day isn’t today. Today, you’re too broken and I’m too pushy. Today we don’t quite work out and as much as I care for you, I can’t keep pretending that we do.

So I’m saying goodbye. But maybe one day, I won’t have to.

Letters to the next (god im going to miss you)

(Source: reality-escape-artist, via s--o)

He is not mine anymore.


You once called me your sun
because I light up your world
and brighten your days
and warm you heart.

But what you didn’t have to tell me,
at least not out loud,
is that you think you are my moon,
and to you, that’s the worst
fate you could ever suffer.

Because, to you, you reflect my light,
making none of your own.

But don’t you see that a moon
will always be better than the sun itself,
the perfect partner to
something that burns so hot,
it hurts everyone who touches it?

Because you are the light
when there is nothing but darkness,
the hope when all else fails,
when all the other suns are
freckles in the distance,
and when I run away.


Always Be My Moon - Samantha Huckabay (via notalbusdumbledore)
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original image from terarriumm


kissing is hella rad but no one is kissing me so that makes me hella sad

(Source: laughing420, via darlingyourenot-alone)


In high school,
they do not teach you
the important things.
You walk across the stage
and are handed a piece of paper
proving that you can survive
four years in hell;
someone makes a speech
telling you how great
and big
and new
the world is,
regurgitating well-rehearsed lies
that not even
they believe.

But they do not warn you
of the lonely nights ahead
in your new apartment
that is much too big for you
and does not feel like home,
or of the heartbreak endured
as your love walks out your door
for the very last time.
No one tells you
how quickly bills will pile up,
or how it is now up to you
to pull yourself out of bed
every morning
and pretend you are alive.

I can recite the Cell Theory in my sleep.
I dream of math equations that I will never need.
I can recite Walt Whitman like his words were once mine,
but I must’ve skipped over the chapter in my textbook
that tells me how to be alive.