" Being in a relationship ends in one of two ways; breaking up or death. When you think about it like that, love really is doomed from the beginning yet we continue to nearly kill ourselves anyway just to taste it.
— Unknown (via psych-facts
shoutout to the girls sucking dick because it makes THEM happy
(Source: strawberitashawty, via wolfbabies)
" …this mixture in my Lolita of tender dreamy childishness and a kind of eerie vulgarity…
— Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
" I once loved a painter. She was sin and magic; both I couldn’t control. There were times when I catch her staring at me a little longer than normal people do, as if she was committing to memory every detail of my face. I remember during her birthday, she wouldn’t ask for anything, no small dinner party or a lavish string of pearls, and lucky for me, a man who had come to understood her deeply and climbed over her wall of thorns, all it took for her to smile was a trip to the forest where she could see the deers satisfying their thirst by the pond. God, her dirty blonde hair was a mess. I would always scold her to put it up, because a.) I liked seeing her in ponytails b.) she looked so beautiful when there were no curtains of hair in front of her face. My painter likes the moon a lot. She would picked the lone moon over the promising sun without a doubt. She had this habit of rustling out of bed at two in the morning, and even to this day she doesn’t think I had no clue about it, but I had, that she comes and wraps blankets around her and walks to the balcony barefoot to watch the moon in her every phase. I would love to join her in those times, wrapping my arms around her tiny waist and we would watch the moon together, naked and the stretched definition of art. It was a flourished dream of every man. But my lover was a painter, and we weren’t an ordinary couple. I knew she needed time alone. I didn’t like it when she came out to the moon, as if talking to her, because in the morning, she mourns. The moon made her feel alone. Those moments I knew there were things about her I could never know, and a dark side she would never want me to know. For every artist, whether a writer or a photographer, a theatre actor or a singer, a graffiti artist or a sculptor, will always take pain something more than hurting itself. Her fingers are so graceful it was as though they have a mind of their own. Whatever she does, her fingers moved in an effortless manner that sometimes it aches me she couldn’t touch me the way she did before. God, she was beautiful. It took a long time before she completely opened up to me, but when she did, it changed me. But she doesn’t know how much of an open book she was. I knew when she’s mad even if the words coming out of those thin lips that I miss say otherwise. Her body language was awful, awful but beautiful and it’s one of those little things that I noticed about her, she would touch your body like she was painting it. Her eyes would give out everything.
— by a.s., this is for nymphery
. (via mossyribs
The fakes they change and crash like waves. The worms come in droves but only when it rains. Put them back in the ground.
one titty out
a glass of wine in one hand