Michelle, 21

Rain on roof outside window, gray light, deep covers and warm blankets. Rain and nip of autumn in air; nostalgia, itch to work better and bigger. That crisp edge of autumn.
The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, 26 August 1956 in Paris  (via ablogwithaview)
  1. Homer:Sing, Muses, the wrath of Achilles, Peleus' son.
  2. Homer:Tell me, O Muse, of the man of many devices, who wandered full many ways after he had sacked the sacred citadel of Troy.
  3. Virgil:Damn thats good. How am I gonna top that?
  4. Virgil:OH I got it!
  5. Virgil:I sing of arms AND a man.
  6. Virgil:Pure aureus baby! 100% completely original.
  7. Virgil:#mine #dont steal #my original work

it was autumn, and we held the taste of burnt tongues inside of our mouth: a sour kind of pain that pressed against our brains until everything we ate was ashes and sawdust.

we said, “i’m never going to fall in love again,” and we meant it. we were going to sell ourselves to the highest bidder. we would have given everything for four minutes of sleep. we would have given anything not to have to worry.

we said, “i’m gonna be okay,” and we meant it in the mornings, but by the time the sun set, we’d forgotten our promises.

you called me saying you were ready to jump off the side of this world or maybe just step into the ocean and dissolve into the tide, i told you that staying was the bravest thing us weak kids do, i begged you to put the razor down and grab the lifeline nearest you, you said, “yeah, i guess,” you calmed down, i hung up, i picked up my blades and texted someone else saying “god but i can’t stand myself.”

we said “i’m gonna be okay,” and meant we’d never tell anyone about this and instead we would cover our mouths and swallow down the blackjacket wasps that covered our throats and stung us until we had to let them slip,

we said, “we’re never going to fall in love again,” we meant we were certain that this world had turned to dust for us and we had become empty deserts and nothing could make us happy for more than a moment - we never were going to love again, were we, because we couldn’t even love the soft light of a sunrise, much less the fury of the darkwater tempest we felt inside.

god, but we were so good at hiding. god, but we were all summer winds, and god - we were dying.

beautiful words, ugly feelings  /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)