before you know it it’s 3am and you’re 80 years old and you can’t remember what it was like to have 20 year old thoughts or a 10 year old heart

source: we love rain

you're my butterfly, sugar, baby

“your mental health comes before school baby, always. if its midnight, and you have an exam the next day but your hands have been shaking for the past hour and a half and you’re not so sure you want to be alive anymore, pull out that carton of ben and jerry’s and afterwards, go the fuck to bed. so what if you get a 68% on the exam the next day? you took care of yourself and at the end of the day that will always come before a high test score. to hell with anyone who tells you differently.”

abbie nielsen, dear future daughter

i forget where we were

"like most sensitive souls, you already know you’re sensitive. you soak up others’ moods and desires like a sponge. you absorb sensation the way a paintbrush grasps each colour it touches on a palette. the ethereal beauty of a dandelion, the shift of a season, the climax of a song, or a certain stirring scent can evoke such wonder it’ll behave as your very breath itself - moving through cells as fuel does to fire and wind does to waves." - victoria erickson

can't go home alone again // need someone to numb the pain

serrah russell's ongoing series 'equivalents'. she rephotographs imagery using polaroid, and crops the results to change the subject matter - taking away its original meaning and thus creating these abstract narratives seen below

you can see more of her work here (and i recommend that you do, i'm in awe)

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

(i'm not sure what i'm doing here anymore)

are we dating? are we fucking? are we best friends? are we something? in between that? i wish we never fucked and i mean that. (but not really. you say the nastiest shit in bed and it's fucking awesome)

basically, all i want from life is pretty lingerie

on having a boyfriend with ocd

"he was always turning the lights on and off,

opening and closing the door,

counting as he went: thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty.

eventually i had to tell him that if he kept opening the door,

we’d have a whole bunch of house intruders

before the night was through. he responded by trying to kiss me once,

then ended up kissing me twenty-three times, then once more

for an even twenty-four. then he had to redo two of them

because “our mouths hadn’t been quite aligned.”

some nights i’d wake up with the moon soaking the bedsheets,

listening to the sound of him repeating the word “fuck”

over and over: he’d stubbed his toe on the bathroom doorway

but couldn’t stop swearing once he’d started.

i fell back asleep after staring at my pillow

until the floral pattern burned into my eyelids,

dreamt the two of us went to an opera but instead of beautiful,

tremulous voices rising high into the air,

two sopranos were singing “fuck” to the tune of la traviata.

he apologises the next day, says the new medication

made him feel like shit all the time so he took himself off it;

i respond that it probably made him feel that way

because it was working.

two days later the ambulance comes and takes him away;

he’d accidentally cut one of his wrists with the steak knife

chopping carrots for stew

but couldn’t have just one cut wrist;

he had to have two."

by meggie royer

also, you need to watch this, and listen to this