(via cruelladevils)
(via cruelladevils)
(Source: dance4broknheartsandbrokndreams, via littlesoulsister)
“You are beautiful, but you are empty. One could not die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think that my rose looked just like you — the rose that belongs to me. But in herself alone she is more important than all the hundreds of you other roses: because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have put under the glass globe; because it is she that I have sheltered behind the screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars (except the two or three that we saved to become butterflies); because it is she that I have listened to, when she grumbled, or boasted, or ever sometimes when she said nothing. Because she is my rose.” - The Little Prince
(via lzbthwlsn)
I learned there’s nothing more shaming
or as memorable as an intimacy
unreturned. And turned, therefore,
to the expected silence of a page,
where I might simultaneously assert
and hide, be my own disappointment,
which saved me for a while.
But soon the page whispered
I’d mistaken its vastness for a refuge,
its whiteness for a hospital
for the pathetic. Fill me up, it said,
give me sorrow because I must have joy,
all the travails of love because
distances are where the safe reside.
Bring to me, it said, continual proof
you’ve been alive.
The people of Mexico were lined up along the streets to see the Pope. This little guy thought otherwise.
rather look at him than the pope.
^True statement.
MY HEART CANNOT TAKE THIS
(via peeves)
(via electric-voltage)
(Source: des-fragmentar, via straight-from-heaven)
(Source: thechocolatebrigade, via rust-and-wishbones)
(Source: leilockheart.me, via leilockheart)
(via seashellz91)
(via asdfghjkllove)
(via pasdamour)


