What did my fingers do before they held him?
What did my heart do, with its love?
Sylvia Plath, from three women: a poem for three voices (1962)
so many worlds to see through the window
(via)
the concept of vinyl records will never cease to amaze me like they put SOUND in there!!!!!!! what the hell and fuck
in conclusion, i am dead
How do the bruises manage to hurt years after they were inflicted?
I continuously stumble into new layers of agony, unsure of whether I will ever resurface.
"Noor Shirazie, Into the Wildfire: Mourning Departures (via noorshirazie)