You cut up a thing that’s alive and beautiful to find out how it’s alive and why it’s beautiful, and before you know it, it’s neither of those things, and you’re standing there with blood on your face and tears in your sight and only the terrible ache of guilt to show for it.
Clive Barker (via drupes)
Strange how we decorate pain.
Margaret Atwood, Oh  (via unrevealing)
my knuckles are bleeding the words i yelled into my wall.
11:23pm//cynicallys (via cynicallys)
Counting Days by Wild Nothing
I offer to you
my bones and my veins. The parts
that break and that spill.
Mary Kate Teske, Haiku (via childoflust)