yousuckatlifee
Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.
Frida Kahlo  (via yousuckatlifee)
getsmewett

drewwilsonphoto:

never trust someone who picks at their scabs. someone who won’t let it heal. because when the real pain strikes, they won’t let that heal either. like peroxide on a fresh cut they’ll wash it away and try to pretend its not so bad. hide it underneath a bandaid. but that itch will start to come back. and they’ll always go back to pick. then both your hearts become infected and i think that’s how scars are really made. i’m beginning to think i’ve become immune to all the remedies. to all the fixes. no neosporin or peroxide can save me. no whiskey or blonde haired blurs will fix me. but you’re always going to be the hospital that keeps its lights on late. that phone that always talks back. that letter that never gets lost in the mail. and i will always be that bird lost at sea. that flower trapped between two blocks of concrete. i will always have those bandaids stuck on me. i’m no longer chained to mistakes. but the shackles will always remain. like a quiet reminder.