guns ablazin'
Break my heart? Is that what you just said? I have news for you; you didn’t break my heart. My heart’s fine. My heart’s in the best shape of its life. You know what you did to me? You took an AK-47 and blew my soul open.
Tiffanie DeBartolo, How to Kill a Rock Star (via perfect)

(Source: quotes-shape-us, via maryyannneeee)



I’m giving this to my history teacher

Today is the day


omfg I was walking home from the bus stop and I saw this elderly couple where this woman was pushing her husband in a wheelchair and I was like “aw that’s cute” but as I got closer to them I heard them talking and she was like “you’re a huge asshole, tom” and he was like “JUST PUSH ME INTO A DITCH”

(Source: poppunksuperstar, via maryyannneeee)

I’ll never fall in love for the first time again. Nobody can be him. Nobody.
Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via prrims)

(via maryyannneeee)

I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.’
Azra.T “My Heart is Full of Open Windows. (via sebarnes)

(Source: 5000letters, via kimberlyjohnstonextraordinary)

I like to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning pulsing just above
your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you

to me, taking you until we’re spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.
Kim Addonizio, “First Poem for You” (via larmoyante)

(Source: larmoyante, via fypoetry)


what am I to you, if not dried petals powdered in clenched fists, if not dust dust dust dust

(via maryyannneeee)

I’m sorry for my inability to let unimportant things go.
Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close (via larmoyante)

(via maryyannneeee)

Coming home to someone is many things. It is a literal action, an abstract idea, a physical feeling. It is more than the sound of the key turning in the door and the voice that calls from the porch. It is a choice, a promise, a declaration. It is a return, not as a person to a place, but as oneself to another. It is one individual saying to another: ‘You are the one I choose’.
(via rootsandroutes)

(via phocks)