I am not, inherently, a liar. I am not, inherently, one who hates. But inherency is delicate -- it can be broken by the easiest of means:

A word.
A touch.
A suggestion.
A tragedy.
A fire.

I am a liar when it suits me to be, and I hate with more passion than I have ever loved.

| S E M I -- H I A T U S |

{Indie Ciel Phantomhive Roleplay Blog.}

I track the tag: pantyhive.

“Sometimes suffering is just suffering. It doesn’t make you stronger. It doesn’t build character. It only hurts.”

(via yannase)

aseaofquotes:

Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro

sexpansion:

*covers up real feelings with aggressive sarcasm*

smirking-raven:

Everything is my demon muse.
I have a muse which whispers in my ear and says,
'Do this, do that,' but it's my demon who provokes me.


                                          -Ray Bradbury

i. when they ask where it hurts, you go home
and knock on your bones and they sound
so hollow, you will whisper that it hurts
everywhere, everywhere
everywhere

ii. your lips will taste like fireball whiskey
and the night will be so wild you cannot tame
your darkness and when they ask you why you
are trying to drown memories or maybe just
yourself, laugh like a maniac, do not tell them you
are just trying to fill an emptiness so threatening
it has started to smell like dead bodies, do not say
you are just done with faking being happy every day
every day every single goddamn day

iii. when you kiss people you don’t care about
and claw your way out of their covers
or when you stay home from parties and shut yourself
behind thick doors and lose every number
or however you choose to lay down your spine as dynamite
so you can selfdestruct socially
when they ask you why you’re doing this to them say you’re
just having a bad day don’t tell them you’re not good enough
to be with them don’t say that people make you sad don’t say
you think each person you meet secretly hates you
don’t say you’re sick of people everyone
every one every single person

iv. four is the number of death when they ask why you
smell of it
and why your smile doesn’t actually look right
on your lips
say you’re tired
don’t tell them you’re tired of everything every leaf every
atom every fucking sad poem every stupid shitty thing on this
too-loud planet with shitty people and shitty poets and shitty
friends and shitty feelings just seriously
every thing

v. when they ask you what’s the matter
lock the answers behind your broken teeth, swallow the key,
feel it hit your stomach while you rip lies out of yourself,
take your bloody fingers, hide them, maybe wipe them off
on the corners of your shirt, do not tell them you are the ice of
saturn’s rings
just show them the best impression of happy you can manage
and say
nothing,
nothing
nothing.

Bad nights make poets write. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

“I wept for what had happened
and forgot to weep
for what was yet to come.”

Andromache, by Euripides (line 396)

“Everyone’s chest
is a living room wall
with awkwardly placed photographs
hiding fist-shaped holes.”

Andrea Gibson, “Class” (via torturegardens)