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.

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

(via daddyfuckedme)

“Perhaps the fact
that I chased a boy
who ripped me to shreds
says a lot more
about me
than it did about him.”
Michelle K., Lessons Learned. (via owkwerd)

(via daddyfuckedme)

euo:

Considering how dangerous everything is nothing is really very frightening
Gertrude Stein: Everybody’s  Autobiography (1937)
Mikko Kourinki

(via iwontletyoukeepme)

euo:

Apartment of murderer Luka Rocco

(via daddyfuckedme)

“i am taught to scream “fire” when
a man grabs my wrists because i
have a bigger chance of getting
help than if i were to yell “rape”,
i am taught to keep my mouth shut
when a boy with bruised knuckles
whistles at me, i am taught long
sleeves in school, to hide my knee’s:
the threshold of my thighs, i am taught
short skirts and to wear cigarette burns
as punishments, i am taught to hold my
tongue in the palms of my brain, i am
taught to shut up, swallow my words,
chew my lipstick, speak when i am told,
i am taught to scream “fire” when a man
grabs my wrists, but he is never taught
“no””
— my sister eats acid  (via irynka)

(via lofticrys)

lamefairy:

things I need to remember

(via daddyfuckedme)


architags:

Gres House. Luciano Kruk. Itauna. Brasil. under construction. images (c) Luciano Kruk 


architags:

Gres House. Luciano Kruk. Itauna. Brasil. under construction. images (c) Luciano Kruk 


architags:

Gres House. Luciano Kruk. Itauna. Brasil. under construction. images (c) Luciano Kruk 


architags:

Gres House. Luciano Kruk. Itauna. Brasil. under construction. images (c) Luciano Kruk

architags:

Gres House. Luciano Kruk. Itauna. Brasil. under construction. images (c) Luciano Kruk

(via daddyfuckedme)

kayleyhyde:

we all know that feeling, vending machine

(via literallysame)

nikktheconqueerer:

wake up america