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unspokenaspirations · 2 years
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must i proofread my writing? is it not enough to unleash it on the public, sexy and unedited?
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unspokenaspirations · 3 years
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"Fuck you my child is completely fine"
Your child has just spent and hour scrolling through "fuck you my child is completely fine" tumblr for a specific post they saw and lost on Instagram but heavily related to.
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unspokenaspirations · 3 years
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“fuck you my child is completely fine” every time we touch your child gets this feeling 
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unspokenaspirations · 3 years
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"Fuck you, my child is completely fine"
ma'am your child is an English major
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unspokenaspirations · 3 years
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fuck you, my child is completely fine!
your child romanticises the idea of running far away and completely changing their personality, looks & soul as a way of coping with having no control over their life & being generally dissatisfied with who they have become
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unspokenaspirations · 4 years
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I wish I were a girl again, half-savage and hardy, and free.
― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights
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unspokenaspirations · 4 years
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Fall outfits
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unspokenaspirations · 4 years
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I hope that you’re never as sad as you were in your 2015 Tumblr posts. 
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unspokenaspirations · 4 years
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A certain type of perfection can only be realized through a limitless accumulation of the imperfect
Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore
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unspokenaspirations · 4 years
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when whitman said “i contradict myself. i am large… i contain multitudes” and wilde said “what are you? to define is to limit” and sumney said “i insist upon my right to be multiple”
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unspokenaspirations · 4 years
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unspokenaspirations · 4 years
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unspokenaspirations · 7 years
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indie
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unspokenaspirations · 7 years
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unspokenaspirations · 7 years
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unspokenaspirations · 7 years
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Darling When was the last time you traced a finger over your skin? Felt the shiver of your fingertips, the heat, the path they trace. When was the last time you felt something that wasn't a fabrication of a lie? I don't know anymore. Write it down, he tells me, when they come write it down.     They. Chain them to the page. Butterflies on a board. Dead butterflies. Not mutilated. Preserved. Maimed, marred by our desire. Desire for beauty. For grace. For poems. But I can't grasp them, they flutter, but when I try to poke the needle through they collapse dead, wings so paper thin dissolving. But I do as I'm told. I write it down. Good girl Good girl You're such a good girl. But was I? Synonym : nefarious
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unspokenaspirations · 7 years
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