Women like me do not fall gracefully,
we stumble over our spines, trip over
our vowels, and collapse into your arms.
Our hearts are open books,
Russian novels containing fifty pages
on the way your voice drifts across
the telephone wires each night.
Our hearts are first drafts,
unedited verses about each and every
person we have ever loved: the stranger
on the subway, the girl who gave us a balloon,
the boy who stole our virginity
but not our heart.
Women like me will love you from a distance
Katrina, M.K. (via rainydaysandblankets)
of a thousand syllables while laying in your bed,
we will destroy you in the most beautiful way possible,
and when we leave you will finally understand
why storms are named after people.
2 days ago // 14,202 notes
Introverts are observant by nature.
They’re the quiet ones who prefer to sit at the sidelines and observe those around them. And no, they’re not judging people when they do this. This also doesn’t mean that introverts are wallflowers. They can talk your ear off if the topic is something they’re passionate or know a lot about. They simply don’t feel the need nor have the energy to be social butterflies. As Susan Cain puts it, “We’re not anti-social; we’re just differently social.”
(Source: alexandra-karamazov, via thebrightestwitchofheryear)
2 weeks ago // 19,675 notes
I spent my life folded between the pages of books.
In the absence of human relationships I formed bonds with paper characters. I lived love and loss through stories threaded in history; I experienced adolescence by association. My world is one interwoven web of words, stringing limb to limb, bone to sinew, thoughts and images all together. I am a being comprised of letters, a character created by sentences, a figment of imagination formed through fiction.
Tahereh Mafi, Shatter Me (via rauchwolken)
(Source: finiteinf1nity, via thissummeriwannabehappy)
3 weeks ago // 245 notes
"Everything looks perfect from far away"
-The Postal Service, “Such Great Heights”
3 weeks ago // 0 notes