“I was always an unusual girl. My mother told me I had a chameleon soul, no moral compass pointing due north, no fixed personality; just an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean.”—Lana Del Rey (via prelovers)
“Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possible have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possible work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, than you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint.”—(via thegayyestone)
I fold my doctor’s receipts into
bookmarks and tuck them between my
ribs but I still keep losing my place between
visits. When you asked why I stopped taking
my pills, it’s because if anyone got close enough
to kiss me, they’d taste the residue against my teeth
and only stick around out of fear I’d take eight more
once they leave;
I left my diagnosis on the table at home before I
went out today because I’d been doing better, I’d
been feeling better, doc; but I want the next Hurricane
to be named after Hope because it can wreck all I’ve
come to terms with over years in a matter of minutes.
It’s a false sense of peace before the next wave. So, do
you think we could do that? Do you? If so, then I’d
like to ask for a scale to measure my tremors, too. If so,
I’d like to know when to tell the ones I love to take cover
and find shelter because all they’ve ever known of home in
me will turn to acres of empty land and darkness soon. Can
you label me a storm warning, doc? Please, can you?
You need to understand that I am rain, and a broken
compass, pain: dressed up with a heavy smile and aching
muscles from standing back up so many times.
I have reminders of this fight tattooed on my body and
even still, I keep slipping on things that overwhelm me,
until I stand again, and even still, I’m unsteady.
I need better traction.
But doc, I don’t know if I’m ready. I
don’t know if I’m ready. I don’t know
where to go. I do know that this makes me
hard to be with. I do know that this turns my
name into a biohazard for upbeat environments;
So yesterday I tried swallowing your evaluation of me
so it would stop coming up in my conversations as an
excuse, but the ink stained your sentences onto my
tongue and now every time I speak it shows through.
I just desperately want all of this to stop showing through.
”—"I Wrote my Psychologist a Poem So She’d Stop Asking How I Was Feeling" -Valentina Thompson (via theseoverusedwords)