sarahwhowrites:

if i were a month
i’d be november
drunk and curled up
watching the first snow
fall
if i were a month
i’d be november
the trees are alive
but they look so dead
i’m not drunk
but my cheeks are red
november
my body is a sensory board
run your fingers
across my ribcage
november
feel my chest rise and fall
until it stops
november
cold lips
against cold lips
and cold lips
against cold cheeks
november

clestroying:

if someone wants to come cuddle w/ me in bed and listen to my problems and watch lame movies with me and eat pizza u are welcome to

(Source: clestroying, via sofiacapshaw)

pararoses:

Does anyone else feel really guilty when they start talking about their own feelings and then immediately regret saying anything because you just feel so annoying and pathetic and ugh

(via wherefeels-come-todie)

There’s a reason I don’t open up to people. I don’t like to be prodded to speak. I don’t like sharing my feelings and then feel like it was a waste of time. I don’t close off from people because I think it’s fun, I do it to protect my heart because it has been clenched and poked and shoved at so many times.

Chinese Food

I had slumped in my seat, legs spread wide, a few fingers tapping the marble counter top that smelled of syrup. My nose crinkled, the sizzle of noodles being deep fried being heard not too far away. My eyes were trapped staring at the slippery noodles, a few scattered shrimp here and there, my tongue licking my lips with hunger.

 “I just want to get to know you,” he said. His skin was light like how I remembered, but his hair was longer. His freckled sprinkled face was framed by beautiful dark curls, the brown of his eyes shining as he commended me for my achievements.  

 I sighed, but only internally, as I took a bite of the much too hot noodles. I didn’t say anything, a simple nod and flash of my eyes all he was going to get from me.

 “I know I fucked up, but I’m here now.” He continued, a few pieces of noodle splashing the table. My face scrunched and I covered my food with an arm, a look of disgust dancing onto my face before twirling off.

 Oh, you messed up? I had no idea. It’s not like I haven’t seen you in years or anything. It’s not like I used to wait by the window in hopes that you would show up and wish me a happy birthday or anything. Or, even a card would have been nice. But, like you said, you fucked up, so that’s apparently good enough of an excuse.

 “And I’m a good father. Ask your little brother. He would tell you that I’m an amazing father.”

 Oh, you mean the little brother who I haven’t seen in what? At least two years. I’m not even sure how old he is, but that didn’t matter. I stared at him blankly, his features much too similar to mine widening with his toothy smile.

 Let me just ask my little brother, whom you take of and provide for, how much of a good fucking father you are.

 I swallowed my food along with the lump in my throat. I dropped my fork with a flick of my wrist and cracked my knuckles before taking a long sip of my pop.

 “Really, I’m not that bad.” He went on.

 “Yeah,” I mumbled, shoving another forkful of lo-mein into my mouth. I didn’t even care about how hot it was anymore. I just needed an excuse not to be able to speak to him.

 “Your brother won’t even speak to me. I called him a few times, but you’re the only one to pick up.”

 Hmm, I wonder why. It’s not like we get frequent visits from you or anything. It’s not like we know you enough to want to pick up the phone. We don’t even know you.

Stranger danger, dad.

 “He doesn’t want to talk to you,” I clarified. I ate more, the man sitting across from me already finished with his meal.

 “I know. Maybe he’ll open up to me.”

 No, he won’t.

 “But I’m glad you answered, that you came out to eat with me.”

 Only because my mom is broke and she can’t give me money for college, but he didn’t need to know that. The crap my mom had to go through because of him, still, it upsets me. I don’t like using people, it makes me feel like a crappy person, but I don’t feel bad one bit about taking anything from him.

 “Hmm,” I nodded.

 “You’ll use that card, right?”

 Of course I’ll use your petty food stamps.

 “Yeah,” I closed the lid to my Chinese food and stuffed it in my bag.

 “Good,” he got up, patted me on the back and walked me home.

Things almost every author needs to research

clevergirlhelps:

the-right-writing:

  • How bodies decompose
  • Wilderness survival skills
  • Mob mentality
  • Other cultures
  • What it takes for a human to die in a given situation
  • Common tropes in your genre
  • Average weather for your setting

yoooo

(via iam-barbie)

Reblog if no one has a crush on you.

(Source: epic-humor, via theunknownbone)