You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.
You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.” —Letter From Anais Nin to Clementine von Radics (After Marty McConnel)
And on a, realistically, more relevant and important note I LOVE Europe and can’t wait to travel here on my own one day, or maybe even live here.
So I’m going out of town (Europe! Woo!) so I probably won’t be on here much. Sorry in advance for whatever random shit I have lined up in my queue.
If you like someone, tell them. Or just stalk them on every social network and cry yourself to sleep every night. It’s whatevs.