You are all of the things you love. You are the cluttered bookshelf that is piled high with worn, tired books. You are that delicate tea-cup that you have to clean by hand when everything else goes in the dishwasher. You are the moon and the sun. You are the flowers speckled with rain. You are the Earth and the people that live on it, with hearts of gold and diamonds in their eyes. You are the things that make you happy, that make you smile, those moments where time stops and you are left alone in space. You are all of the things you love, and if that's so, it means you love yourself, because you are yourself.
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do y’all wish for something drastic to happen so you don’t have to sit in that exam you’re supposed to give and then you realise you’re such a horrible person because it affects not just you but the whole damn world is it just me?
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are u up for a trip to hell?
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Every damn time!
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i hate seeing people my age who’ve got their life together already like what the fuck
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i don’t know what would’ve happened to my mental and emotional health if there were no books
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are they soulmates or are they just another red x blue ship
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dear daddy nineteen years ago i competed with three hundred million sperms and won don’t expect more
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imagining romantic scenarios in my head right now
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i wanna be hugged for like, a week straight
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My ancestors, watching me dump an entire stick of cinnamon, two cloves, an allspice berry, and a generous grating of nutmeg into my tea, sweetened with white sugar and loaded with cream, while I sit in my clean warm house surrounded by books, 25+ outfits for different occasions, and 6 pairs of shoes, in a building heated so well I have the windows open in mid-autumn:
Our daughter prospers. We are proud of her. She has never labored in a field but knows riches we could not have imagined.
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Give me a book in my asks and I’ll tell you my favourite characters if I’ve read it
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when i know a mutual is going through my blog it feels like i am being graded
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“I’ve been trying to go home my whole life—”
— Chelsea Dingman, from “Psychogeography,” published in The Los Angeles Review
(via lifeinpoetry)
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dear daddy nineteen years ago i competed with three hundred million sperms and won don’t expect more
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