♃

stop deleting me ill come after u 

nothing like idealism and escapist tendencies to make your day Am I Right 

I JUST LISTENED TO I HATE EVERYBODY BY HALSEY JAE IM CRYING ITS LITERALLY YOU YOU SAY THAT SHIT SO MUCH ITS LIKE SUBCONSCIOUS AND YET

I still love @xueexiaoo 

folsom state prison ver.

random johnny cash marathons every three years or is that just me?

today is the day I tell you: I love you 

the best, the greatest

youre so beautiful fr

I spent my youth on the grime and glass of highways. The filmy, lackluster look in their eyes. I wrote down poems about love, death, sanctity on donation slips at church and ran wherever the streetlights took me, out when I wasn’t supposed to be and hiding from what was. It’s romantic, the city at night. I went there and thrived off of vacant bodies and tip cans and skyscrapers flickering with the moon. I think I’ve always had a habit of thinking the dirty is clean, fragments of the past prettier than they ever were – maybe that’s what writing is, what it does. I can’t listen to the sounds of the morning come, because it’s a reminder. That the world is still alive. It won’t last forever, but I’ve always been fascinated by the dark. Even when it isn’t real. I might see your eyes glow in the light of a vending machine in another life, I might chase down the burn in my throat dancing around a motel lot and I might try to make you laugh. Standing at the edge of route 18 and watching headlights whisk underneath concrete gives someone time to think, don’t you know? Maybe I could go back home—maybe I should. But sometimes I wander away, for a hopeless moment, to a place where I don’t have to worry about tomorrow. I don’t have to think about all the people I’ve lost, and I can, instead, think of you. I’d imagine the defiant look on your face, and I’d never have to wonder what may inspire me. Wealth is cursive excerpts from your fingertips, little red strings wrapped around my pinky. And that’s how it’ll always be. If I told you words spill from your lips the way water would, seamlessly, beautifully, what would you do? What it is to have an inspiration, what it is to feel. What heart might break with the slightest touch; pale skin stretched taut over sharp bones. There’s more to life than inspiration? How, and where? They lie. There will never be anything more inspiring than midnight, in the form of starry eyes and a mouth that takes the shape of an evening cloud. Nothing.