The most exhausted a person could be, times 10. That’s what I am.

mending4:

Todos os direitos reservados a Katharine.F 

God, I miss this feeling.

mending4:

Todos os direitos reservados a Katharine.F 

God, I miss this feeling.

(via thefaultsinbeingawallflowerr)

In my dreams, you and I are still stalled in my mom’s car underneath a dark tree on some back alley street in your neighborhood. I’m 21 and you’re fragile and porcelain. You’re still yelling at your mom when she asks how your day was, and you’re still making me realize, every day, that nothing is ever as it seems. I lost a lot of trust in people after you, but I also gained a sense of self worth that I had never had before.

I have a black heart, I think. Knowing what I know now about my birth mother makes me wish I hadn’t ever sought to find her. She tells me I’m a bitch over airwaves and to be honest, it stings. I don’t even know this person, and I’ve already spent $400 and half of my day on her. What a fucking piece of shit I am. 

There is it: I’m always blaming myself. I listen to nostalgia radio and reorganize my curated museum of mistakes while picking my scabs. My muscles hurt but I’ve been trying to stretch myself out as much as possible. I need to become more flexible - figuratively - and more open - physically. I feel like such an idiot.

This past year, I say, has shown me how fucking jaded I really am. I take a drag of my cigarette. I need to stop trusting people, seriously. This weather feels more like fall than the end of August and I am grateful to finally be done with it. I’m scared of being a mother, of being a wife, of being a person, of being alive. I’m scared of talking to ex’s when my husband isn’t around. I’m scared of losing my home to the banks because it’s two days before my mortgage payment is due and i only have a quarter of it. I’m scared of the way the windows in the sunroom are wide-fucking-open all the time and I’m convinced my neighbor sees me crying at 3 am. He gives me these beady eyed stares when I get my mail in the mornings. I want a god damn new beginning.

I took this bullshit test on HuffPost that boasted, we know what career you should have had! Take our quiz, find out if we’re right! 

I’m a mom and a should-have-been and an amateur photographer and a failure. And maybe they were right, because that stupid quiz said I should have been a writer.

But I should have been the moon. I’m always rising and falling, so rapidly, in the dark.

"

My battered heart will always be
where the ocean meets the sand, I
will break over and over

Every day. That is the best and
worst part of me.

"

Clementine von Radics (via journalofanobody)

(via oneroomslumber)

Trying to understand myself a little more each day.

Trying to understand myself a little more each day.

"be softer with you. you are a breathing thing. a memory to someone. a home to a life."

nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)

(via darkinterludes)

"To do something really, really good, you might have to mess up your entire life."

my drawing professor who I think may actually be God (via scottiehughes)

Hi!

Hi!

squeats:

Darwin’s Finches

squeats:

Darwin’s Finches

In late summer, we tied our
Hair back and wrote a few words
Down on a crumpled piece of paper.

Perhaps it was the sangria;
I blossomed into the pieces of fruit
That floated casually in the ice chips
Along the top of my cup.

Dare I say, my heart was a wild horse,
And all the sonnets you recited
Were not Shakespearian, but love,
Like a piece of jade or a children’s book
Carved from the belly of a mother.

Wearing my best blouse has become a
Sunday tradition.
And this is why:

Give me energy,
Give me brown eyes with flecks of green and stoic blue.
Give me radioactive fireflies that shuttle themselves around like little streetlights.
Give me revisions on term papers in red ink and bloody knees.
Give me the way you’re hair always licks at my neck when we sleep too close together.
Give me an Instax camera that will write history for me.
(In fact, give me history.)
Give me shorts the color of orange blossoms and fresh cut flowers on my dining room table.
Give me moving day.
Give me a first birthday for a little boy whose eyes are wide and absorbing all the world has in it’s teeth.
Give me a doctor visit (or two).
Give me the courage to tell you I’m scared.
Give me yellow jackets, white asparagus soup, grown women who can’t seem to grasp the idea that maybe I’m my own person now.
Give me.

And I said this with a full mouth because I don’t know
Exactly how far
I’ll be walking to you.
It could be a while, dear.