31 12 / 2013


Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home


Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home

(via beforeiloveandleaveyou)

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29 11 / 2013

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25 11 / 2013

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25 11 / 2013

"Only be with someone who you think you can learn from. They should be smarter than you in certain ways so that you can continue to grow and be interested. Above all, you should undoubtedly be proud that you are with them."

something my 10th grade history teacher told me about how he knew he wanted to marry his wife (via seabelle)

(Source: mindtricks-, via beforeiloveandleaveyou)

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30 10 / 2013

"One day, he’s going to know. He’ll know your birthday, your middle name, where you were born, your star sign, and your parents names. He’ll know how old you were when you learnt to ride a bike, how your grandparents passed away, how many pets you had, and how much you hated going to school. He’ll know your eye colour, your scars, your freckles, your laugh lines and your birth marks. He’ll know your favourite book, movie, candy, food, pair of shoes, colour, and song. He’s going to know why you’re awake at 5am most nights, where you were when you realised you’d lost a good friend, why you picked up the razor and how you managed to put it down before things went too far. He’s going to know your phobias, your dreams, your fears, your wishes, and your worries. He’s going to know about your first heartbreak, your dream wedding, and your problems with your parents. He’ll know your strengths, weaknesses, laziness, energy, and your mixed emotions. He’s going to know about your love for mayonnaise, your dream of being famous when you were five, your need to quote any film you know all the way through, and your fear of growing older. He’ll know your bad habits, your mannerisms, your stroppy pout, your facial expressions, and your laugh like it’s his favourite song. The way you chew, drink, walk, sleep, fidget and kiss. He’s going to know that you’ve already picked out wedding flowers, baby names, tiles for the bathroom, bridesmaid dresses, and the colour of your bedroom walls. He’s going to know, get annoyed at and then accept that you leave clothes everywhere, take twenty minutes to order a Starbucks, have to organise your DVD’s alphabetically, and check your horoscope… just incase. He’ll know your McDonald’s order, how many sugars to put in your tea, how many scoops of ice cream you want, and that you need your sandwiches cut into triangles. He’s going to know how you feel without you telling him, that you need a wee from a look on your face, and that you’re crying without shedding tears. He’s going to know all of it. Everything. You, from top to bottom and inside out. From learning, from sharing, from listening, from watching. He’s going to know every single thing there is to know, and you know what else? He is still going to love you."

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25 10 / 2013


All good things take time. A reminder.


All good things take time. A reminder.

(via insidemyuniverse)

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30 7 / 2013

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26 7 / 2013


I want to be the sound, that sound I am sure every person on every planet makes but no one will ever make quite like you, when you stretch your body as far as it will stretch in the morning. That soft mix of moan and squeal as you bend the sleep from your weary bones and remind them that they were built for being vertical no matter how much they love the feeling of lying down.

I wonder how it’d feel to be your favorite song? The one that makes you stand to look for the hand that can only land on the small of your back and spin you in slow circles to the words you know by heart. I want to be known by heart like all the songs that act as soundtrack to all the memories of all the things you’ve ever done. I want to be your first day of school when you were just a child, the backpack that was bigger than you were and the school supplies you shopped for weeks in advance after checking the list and checking it again that was taped with too little scotch tape on too big a window outside the hauntingly empty parking lot that is a school in summer.

I want to be your dreams, be they nighttime dreams that take you to places that you have never been or put air between your feet and the earth that you’re locked to or just simply let you sit around a table that you and I built out of old wood we found on slow walks through rainy fields. I want to be the steam that rises from two cups of tea while we sit at that table and the way the light seems to play in it when it’s filtered through the dirty windows still moist with the morning. Or your day dreams, for they are dreams too even though they always get passed over for the silly fact that they lack the qualifier of sleep to fuel them. The daydreams where you stop, mid-bite or mid-sentence or mid-morning and just stare into nothing to fill it with so much something else. I want to be that something else and the way your pupils dilate when you start leaving this place to spend a breath there.

Maybe I could be piano keys so your fingertips could dance across me and no matter how out of tune I found myself, you could still find a way to make music.

I want to be a short winter filled with long snows and a long spring filled with longer thunderstorms and I want to be the goosebumps that crawl up the back of your spine at the first bolt of lightning, the first crawling boom of thunder and the way your eyes raise up big and bright in tandem with a giant inhale when you hear it. I want to be a handwritten letter that you wrote to me, and I want to be the letters that you carefully chose to put next to the other letters and the way you worked hard to make the sentences dance together. I want to be your handwriting scrawled across the pages and the bravery of choosing ink and not lead so mistakes stayed mistakes and could not hide from my reading eyes.

I want to be the word and more than the word the promise of ‘Yours’, before you sign your name. I want to be that flourish of that pen and the way it connected to your skin and that skin covered your blood that carried all the words from your heart to your finger tips through that pen that your fingers held too tightly and pressed too firmly into the paper it wrote upon. I want to be the pages under those pages that still carry the indention of your thought process and I want to be the part of the envelope you lick to seal up tight all the things you could never say to me.


25 7 / 2013


I want to be the book that sleeps beside your bed, the one you reach for when you cannot find the backs of your eyes and paint with your own ink to highlight the sentences that highlighted something inside you. The bent pages and water damaged spine and the ring of brown where your coffee mug couldn’t help but sit when the skin on your fingers couldn’t handle the heat any longer. Let me be the tan-lines you don’t know you have, from where the sun reached in for a kiss but found fabric or metal or shade instead.

The halo of lighter skin that lives under your ring or the lines below your toes that trace the days you wore flip flops instead. Would you love me more if I was your favorite dress? The one that came out on special occasions and made your lips do that little pursed smirk during your last glance for the last time in your last mirror on your way out the door. The silent nod of approval that all things are in the right place and tonight, yes tonight, you feel beautiful. The one that drops jaws and raises eyebrows and forces hearts to speed up when slowing down for the night was all they had on their agenda.

I had a dream I was rainfall, but the kind that followed you around and only fell in your hair. The little cloud that carried me was a magnet to the metal in your blood and sticks to you through the comic strip course of your afternoon. The kind that rains from under your umbrella as if your umbrella alone created it. Let me be that rain as you splash and jump and play inside it, the feeling of it soaking your socks and that gorgeous realization that wet socks should drive you crazy but just cannot today, just will not if it’s me that’s the water and your socks are drinking me like they are dying of thirst.

I want to be the conversation that’s held entirely without words but instead with the ballet of your lips on my lips. The slight pauses and the long drawn out sighs. The words that translate themselves as we pull our mouths apart for a moment just to memorize the exact smell and taste and tactile imprints that we were left with. The argument that takes place under sheets instead of across tables, the peaceful resolution that comes as I wash your hair in the shower and see the letters of our disagreement whirlpool themselves around the drain before vanishing forever.

The soap bubbles that pop all around us and each carry the same sounds, if only we were small enough to hear, Do they all say how silly we have been? How small the furniture in the household of that fight? How crooked the paintings and how sloped the walls of that fighting fit of an argument? I wonder what it would feel like to be anger or sadness or even regret inside you? I would love to be any emotion that you, without knowing why you do or even being able to help the fact that it’s habit now, keep bottled up deep inside you.

I want to know what it feels like to shake you from your skeleton and rattle those bones and make every freckle dance with how hard your skin shakes. Then I want to be the calm that washes over you and the realization that you are exactly where you are supposed to be and that no one, not any one, can ever take that away as long as you believe in it. I want to be the smell of your childhood home and the reaction your body has when something smells exactly like it. That instant transportation to somewhere simpler.

I want to be 5:00 am on Christmas morning and the way that every other person in the family yells at you to make it at least 7, come on, this year, at least 7.

Maybe I could be a dog that followed you home one day or looked at you with just the right combination of love and need that made you stop your feet from shuffling out the shelter door and turn on the spot you stood to rescue me.

Maybe if I was a dog, on the day I died all you would ever possibly remember were the good moments and good things that I did and never the mistakes or the times I broke things that shouldn’t be broken or acted just a little too defensive and willing to show everyone everywhere that you belonged to me, and I belonged to you.



25 7 / 2013

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22 7 / 2013

(Source: chotto-henna, via wrists)

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10 7 / 2013

Will forever reblog!

(Source: wewewe-soexcited, via conflictingheart)

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30 6 / 2013

"Find someone who won’t hesitate."

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30 6 / 2013

"Go all the way with it. Do not back off. For once, go all the goddamn way with what matters."

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11 6 / 2013

"And you’ll always love me won’t you?”
“And the rain won’t make any difference?”

Ernest Hemingway  (via lobix)

(Source: beautyisanillusion, via beforeiloveandleaveyou)

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