Like so many of us, she was happy when intoxicated, either by liquor or through fantasy. She would lose herself in books and plays as no one else could. She was happiest dreaming, imagining herself with new friends or parents; new skills; new homes. The goal was to get to the next dream. And I think now she is within all of our dreams—she is, in fact, the ultimate dream. And no one can hurt her, and no one can wake her up.
written by Arthur Miller on Marilyn Monroe, 1998 

(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via ciinemas)

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love.
written by Washington Irving

(Source: themelancholyhill, via empresswuofthetangclan)

I forget what it’s like to kiss you and what it’s like to want to. I forget what it feels like to hold your hand, if we ever even held hands, it feels like we didn’t. I forget what it’s like to trust you, to believe in you, to need you. I forget what it’s like to think that I’d never forget any of it. For a long time, I thought I never would. You and I both know you left ghosts behind, but they seem to have found someone new to haunt. Maybe it’s you.
written by Stephanie Georgopulos 

(Source: hellanne, via ciinemas)

How far have you walked for men who’ve never held your feet in their laps?
How often have you bartered with bone, only to sell yourself short?
Why do you find the unavailable so alluring?
Where did it begin? what went wrong? And who made you feel so worthless?
If they wanted you, wouldn’t they have chosen you?
All this time, you were begging for love silently, thinking they couldn’t hear you, but they smelt it on you, you must have known that they could taste the desperate on your skin?
And what about the others that would do anything for you, why did you make them love you until you could not stand it?
How are you both of these women, both flighty and needful?
Where did you learn this, to want what does not want you?
Where did you learn this, to leave those that want to stay?
written by Warsan Shire 

(Source: beyoncepadthaii, via mermaidporn)

I used to be gold. First prize
collarbones, atomic number
79.

I think of our bodies unhinging.
Dismantling a masterpiece we
worked so hard to build with
creased hands. A workshop of
cracking spines to straighten out
the way we would slouch.

Maintenance was: drilling openings
inside each others joints, stitching
ligaments, embroidering our hopes
beneath surfaces in cryptic codes
unseen.

When I arrived I was sun. Already
sweltering inside your pores,
glazing skin in honey residue.
My promises rinsed over in drizzling
rain, marinating your bones, flooding,
breaking into the current network
of your nerves.

Often, all I have are promises.

It starts with a loud rumbling noise
from the inside out, a vicious clap of
thunder rendering breathing patterns
defenceless. An expansion of pressure
that is too close for comfort.

When I think of slipped disks,
they remind me of those stepping stones
we crossed towards the Colosseum
we had in our minds.

We hung expectations from our shoulders.

Self depreciation is a gale force wind
who knocks once, twice, strikes fragility
down with her fury—ungluing the grip
beneath my feet, begging that I get familiar
with my knees.

She says, “You’re going to have to look at
them up close if you want to learn how to assess damage.”

When I unzipped my ribcage I saw those
impressions that you’d left on my heart,
ransacked awareness told me you’d been
here, moulding yourself between my
ventricles.

Last night I set a fire,
and watched as it burn the end
of the rope that I’d been holding
to keep you
close.

written by Lauren Flynn, “I used to be gold.”   

(via mermaidporn)

Why didn’t I learn to treat everything like it was the last time. My greatest regret was how much I believed in the future.
written by Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close

(Source: divine-despair, via empresswuofthetangclan)