Don’t tell me that you love me, because anyone can tell me that. Tell me that I make you tear up with anger and frustration, but at the end of the day you still want to lay down next to me, put your arms around me, and sleep.
— (via girlchoking)
Something else is hurting you - that’s why you need pot or whiskey, or screaming music turned so fucking loud you can’t think.
— Charles Bukowski (via n-0-s-t-a-l-g-i-aa)
I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel - drained. It is a blank state of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also it is a very private feeling I have - that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all.
— Anne Sexton, A Self-Portrait In Letters (via wuthering-soul)