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“How could you do that? Knowing everything about my past. Knowing how I was. How could you? I thought you were better than that. Guess I fooled my self into thinking you were different. Shame on me.”

-k.aiden

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“Then the men we try to love say we carry too much loss, wear too much black, are too heavy to be around, much too sad to love. Then they leave, and we mourn them too.”

— What we own from “Our Men Do Not Belong To Us”

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“Sometimes I feel like I’m so fucking hard to love and that shit hurts like hell”

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@thebohoparade

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dont have my journal so i had to draw on my phone.

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I write because I passionately want to speak. Even though writing is only giving me the great measure of silence.

Clarice Lispector, from Água Viva (via wishbzne)

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Perhaps, the saddest thing of all, Is that I loved you, and every so often, I thought maybe you could love me too.

Excerpt from a Book I’ll Never Write, Perhaps the Saddest Thing. 

Pablo Neruda Inspired

(via sunflowerletters)

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“You gave me panic attacks and I thought it was love.”

Day 483 (via myonlywayoutofhere)

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A kitchen is the best—I mean the saddest—room for tears. A bedroom is too easy, a bathroom too private, a living room too formal. If someone falls to pieces in the kitchen, in the space of work and nourishment, they must be truly coming undone. The bright lights offer no comfort, only illuminate. The floor should be vinyl and cold.

Heather Christle, from The Crying Book (via lifeinpoetry)

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(What we killed was love.)

Marina Tsvetaeva, from The Selected Poems of M. T.; “Poem of the End”. (via gladtobeunique)