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People always leave; don’t get your hopes up.

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Loneliness. Being so excited one minute, and on the verge of tears the next.

Link

http://youarethegalaxy.tumblr.com/post/88644539267

youarethegalaxy:

"I like your curves," he said.

"What?" I asked, though I heard him.

"You have nice curves," he said, as though I have a say in the way my fat falls, loops and sits on my bones, hangs to my frame and claims "woman."

Somehow it was still one of the most interesting things he said that night,…

What a beautiful friend with beautiful words :)

Source: youarethegalaxy
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Inspiration will never fall on you like a ton of bricks, hit you in the head, and all the sudden leave you with the next great American novel or the next top 10 hit. Inspiration comes with pain, with happiness, with hard work, with patience. Inspiration comes to the people who are willing to write down every thought and every feeling they have in a day. Inspiration doesn’t come at your convenience. Inspiration comes from the things you never want to happen.

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then I am a self-sabotoging idiot who believes that she deserves happiness and perfection for a week, and then should be forgotten about; just like the perfect flowers he gives you on your first date, that you throw out a week later.

Link

He said, what turns you on

youarethegalaxy:

I like smiles that refuse to fit. I like them slung between the ears like hammocks, corners stretched so taut—seems they might snap.

I like crow’s feet, wrinkles that clamber, fight to navigate the face.

I like chin divots and bony wrists on man hands, square hands, box fingertips with short…

Source: youarethegalaxy
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It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

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It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via girlchoking)

holy shit

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everything.

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Source: extrasad
Quote

"if you consider a woman
less pure after you’ve touched her
maybe you should take a look at your hands"

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I will never not reblog this

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