it’s not mine, but it’s clean.
Wearing it to bed. Is that weird?

Chopin

and Plath’s Ariel

and bed.

fewlittlesins:

Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward, 1960s

Something about this photograph.

(Source: squirmedstoic, via bees-knees)

I wear your clothes at night to not remind
my body of its own attempted ruin.
I dream of dust and dead leaves and the
soft space beneath your clavicle. I praise
your crooked ways of loving; your handgun
affections. You carved your likeness into
my retinas, illuminated the
current that carries my heightened unrest.

For all of this, I continue to forgive
that we will ascertain our once holy ground.

(via kerryalaska)

Sternberg’s Love Theory 

(via dilaudid)

(Source: fulyakumsal, via devilstattoo)

All it takes is the pressing of the keys, the brush of the hand, the stroke of the ink, the brush of the hand, the pressing of the keys, the explosion in the brain, the letters traveling through your veins, gathering beneath the skin blueish and vibrant.

Sometimes, it’s so suffocating to be here.

beardsleyjones:

(Source: styleessentials, via notarobotbutaghost)