A Lesson In Forgetting:
 The Past Always Heals Faster
 When You’re Not Looking. The Way We Try

Sometimes I wish I can go back in life. Not to change things, just to feel a couple of things twice We’ll be together on the same page, on the same line Hands over hands, reliving the moments, reliving the time..

…for we are in such fragile skin, so close to getting lost in the in-between.

Eimear McBride, from The Lesser Bohemians (via luthienne)

I couldn’t quite comprehend what betrayal was, but suddenly with your knife in my back - betrayal has never tasted so bittersweet.

j.b.r - 17.05.16 (via lucid-vissions)

the things we learn right before midnight

what's keeping you from sleeping?

nothing. i'm just not ready to hit the sack.

why's that?

you really want to know?

yep.

okay. but i don't want you to think i'm crazy or leave this bed running, alright?

i wouldn't do that.

right. okay. hmm. so, 24 years ago, on the eve of my birth, my mom decided to deliver her child in a graveyard. the city's farthest most forgotten graveyard. she's an artist, though; a lover of contrasts & a chaser of the dark.

oh

july 21st, lost in the depths of a summer night amid traces of grief, sorrow & dried petals, my mum gave birth to a baby she’d almost immediately hold between her arms. i don't remember this of course, but i've been told she murmured:

'hey, little one. i need you to think of death as your friend. a mutual. an ally. a confident.'

from that day on - my entire life, basically- i've never slept before midnight.

i stay still by the side of my bed, patiently waiting for my oldest friend to come sit by my side.

once he shows up, we tell each other how life treated us that day in our own sides of the realm.   we then hold hands & together, we end the life of yet another day.

- @skinthepoet

Eighty-nine (source)

It was just the same long summer, always, and everything lived and grew at its own pace.

Tove Jansson, The Summer Book (via a-quiet-green-agreement)

The way I splash your relentless name In shivers about me. Watch him wallow. If he tastes mud as bitter as this poem   Of mine, then I win – and you love me.

Jericho Brown, Grip (via: skinthepoet)