youngchronicpain:

quick question: how the fuck do I get through the rest of my life like this

(via insecure-marcher)

scorpiomess:

I hope the next thing I get addicted to is taking care of my self and loving my body

(via psychings)

broken thoughts (via br-o-ken-poetry)

(via razorpens-paperwrists)

Some days it isn’t your thoughts killing you - it’s everything. The matted, grey sky; the cold, windy streets; the whole world seems to be dying. And you long for ridiculous, storybook things: yellow meadows and glittering oceans and the warmth of a full sun, because it’s basic, but it’s beautiful - and that’s all you want, right now; it’s all you need. To exist, and let the world be your medicine.

70years:

do whatever the hell it takes to make u feel real again

(via trailerparkwitch)

As A Christian

nikkicarter:

As a Christian. This makes me so angry.

As a Christian I know, you might not really want my opinion right now, but,

As a Christian I know that sometimes, when the argument start with religion, it takes religion to finish it.

So.

As a Christian, it’s time to open your fucking bibles folks because we are going on a wild fucking ride. 

As a Christian, I believe in the bible.

As a Christian, the bible tells me “There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” (Gal 3:28)

As a Christian I know that God just doesn’t give a single shit whether you are trans or cis or gay or bi or straight or ace or whatever, “For there is no partiality with God.” (Romans 2:11)

As a Christian, I apologise.

As a Christian, I am furious.

As a Christian, I can tell you with certainty that if you discriminate, if you “show partiality, you are committing sin and are convicted by the law as transgressors.” (James 2:9)

As a Christian, I would like to point you to the fucking section where Peter says “…God has shown me that I should not call any [one] unholy or unclean.” (Acts 10:28)

As a Christian, I don’t give a damn whether or not you believe in my God.

As a Christian, I am of the ‘whatever floateth thine boat’ philosophy.

But as a Christian.

You may not pervert my religion to justify your hate,

You may not hide behind the excuse of some merciless, judgmental, hateful God,

You may not tell me that Jesus was about something besides equality,

You may not tell me to my face that the son of God, a man who ate with tax collectors and prostitutes, and said ‘suffer the little children’ and washed the feet of his fellow man,

You may not tell me that he would turn his face from someone who felt wronged by their own body,

You may not tell me that he wouldn’t fucking let a transgender kid into heaven,

You can take your fucking broken, perverted idea of my religion, and you can shove it. 

As a Christian. 

I don’t know what fucking bible you’re reading, but it sure ain’t mine.

Lana Rafaela (via wnq-writers)

(Source: wnq-writers, via moodymami)

let me tell you something:

no one is going to look at you, broken and shattered
and think -
damn, you are beautiful.

no one is going to come pick up your broken pieces off the floor and
assemble them into a beautiful whole.

hell,
you won’t even look at yourself and think -
I made broken look beautiful.

you know why?

because all those writers lied to you.

yes,
all those with their poems of scraped knuckles and
blood dripping down chins,
pomegranate songs and loves that ripped through you like
hurricanes.

liars.

so you and i,
we are going to make a plan.

you are not going to romanticize days when your brain tells you to smash that mirror,
you are not going to romanticize the lover who doesn’t understand you
but still writes about you.

here is what you are going to romanticize instead:

you are going to romanticize the first day of spring,
its gentle hands all over your body,
lifting you up until you are as light as a feather.

you are going to romanticize the tea and honey kind of love,
no hurricanes,
but sunshine that builds you up from within,
that helps you make it through the worst days.

you are going to romanticize gentle hands of a friend
in yours,
telling you that it is going to be okay.

because it is.

and don’t trust poets,
we’re no good,
we love pretending that our jagged edges tantamount to a beautiful disaster, but in reality -
there ain’t nothing beautiful about shaky hands holding a cigarette and
empty eyes staring at the cracks in the walls.

you know what is beautiful, instead?

the days when you can look at yourself in the mirror and smile,
scars and all.

music that makes your soul flow like a river,
books that offer comfort,
families flocking together like overgrown birds to keep you safe and warm,
friends that give you strength when you can find none,
lovers who make you laugh through tears.

baby,
from now on
you are going to romanticize healing;

honey dripping down your fingertips,
August nights that stick to your skin,
the day you find your purpose,
long car rides and singing so loud that no one can shut you up now.

bad news:
no one is coming to save you.

good news:
you can save yourself.