Someone once told me that shooting stars are really just angels throwing away their cigarettes before God could catch them smoking

The words “my boyfriend” still slip out of my mouth

You were a second language to me.
You told me to start talking to new people, that they would make me happier. I’ve never been happier. Thank you for killing me, my love. I’m free

"do not tell her you love her if you are not ready for her to call you at 3 AM freaking out.
do not tell her you love her if you cannot handle her father or mother.
do not tell her you love her if you cannot love her at her worse.
do not tell her you love her if you only crave for her curves, not her mind.
do not tell her you love her if you cannot deal with her mood swings.
do not tell her you love her just to have sex.”
— do not tell her you love her. Krystal Gonzalez  (via memoriesrecollected)
"

That’s what really scares me.

Falling in love is easy. Having sex is easier. But bumping into someone that can spark your soul - that shit is rare.

You could fuck four, five, all the people in a god damned room and you’d only feel a connection with one. Or none at all.

And what sucks is despite the undeniable real magnetic pull between the two of you, more often than not, you don’t end up together.

I’m afraid I won’t meet anyone else I can connect with.

I’m scared it’ll be just you.

Sade Andria Zabala (surfandwrite) | Connection  (via 09994)

florallveins:

shaving takes a lot of effort. if a girl tells you to feel her legs after she’s shaved, you fucking feel them

You better fucking touch them, it’s a special occasion

"My mother told me that you can’t cure depression,
that taking pills wouldn’t fix me and taking six
instead of the prescribed two definitely wasn’t
going to speed up the process. But I met a boy
who tasted better than Prozac. He made it easier
to get out of bed. He kissed me like I was
alive, like I wasn’t empty, like maybe there was
something left inside me. He made my bones
ache less when he touched me. He made it okay.
When my world was crashing down around me,
he picked up all the pieces. When I stopped
breathing and tried to tear open my wrists to
find the last little bits of happiness left in my
veins, he was there to lace me back together.
But he left and I haven’t washed my hair in three
weeks. My mother was right.”
— I met a boy who tasted better than Prozac (via extrasad)
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