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These mountains that you are carrying, you were only supposed to climb..

Najwa Zebian (via currentsinbiology)

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listen I didn’t expect to be crying about rock lee today but here we are

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by Gods of the Moon

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the thought of me having sex: nice

the thought of someone being intimate with me and seeing me naked and knowing what I look like that vulnerable: absolutely disgusting

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It’s hard to hurt things. Isn’t it. I’m afraid of spiders but I still scoop them cold into my hands & let them free. Where’s the church for things like this.

Talin Tahajian, “No steeple,” published in Cosmonauts Avenue (via bostonpoetryslam)

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i want to hollow out a fresh baguette and lay in it for a week

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A southern three-banded armadillo (Tolypeutes matacus) at the Lincoln Children’s Zoo. Source

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ya see how it goes

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Sometimes you’re 23 and standing in the kitchen of your house making breakfast and brewing coffee and listening to music that for some reason is really getting to your heart. You’re just standing there thinking about going to work and picking up your dry cleaning. And also more exciting things like books you’re reading and trips you plan on taking and relationships that are springing into existence. Or fading from your memory, which is far less exciting. And suddenly you just don’t feel at home in your skin or in your house and you just want home but “Mom’s” probably wouldn’t feel like home anymore either. There used to be the comfort of a number in your phone and ears that listened everyday and arms that were never for anyone else. But just to calm you down when you started feeling trapped in a five-minute period where nostalgia is too much and thoughts of this person you are feel foreign. When you realize that you’ll never be this young again but this is the first time you’ve ever been this old. When you can’t remember how you got from sixteen to here and all the same feel like sixteen is just as much of a stranger to you now. The song is over. The coffee’s done. You’re going to breathe in and out. You’re going to be fine in about five minutes.

Sylvia Townsend Warner, The Winter of the Air. (via wordsnquotes)

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Don’t you hate it when you’re dead inside and run out of apps to refresh

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And I will take the offering on my tongue And it will not be a vault And someone will not invade me And I will kneel to pray And I will address the prayer to myself And I will be allowed

Morgan Parker, from “Heaven Be a Xanax,” There Are More Beautiful Things Than Beyonce (via lifeinpoetry)

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forgive me, I suck 

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