“I want to tell you I miss
you with no subtext. No guilt,
no anger, no expectation
that you’ll fix it. I don’t want
you to feel bad or to tell
me it will get better. This
is where we are meant to be
right now – me apart from you,
my hands a little empty and
my heart a little sad.
I just miss you.
I wanted you to know.”—anne, fyi
Hey I love my lipsticks but I hate when they stain my bf's mouth (and mess up my perf application as well) and he complains about the taste. Any suggestions for long lasting lipsticks or ones that won't make ppl gag when they kiss me?
I absolutely SWEAR by this shit, and I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again:
Sephora’s Cream Lip Stain in Always Red is made by witches. It is damn magic. It is sorcery. It is 13 motherfucking dollars at Sephora. Every time you wear it, a pinup girl angel gets a calendar spread.
I do not swear by many products, but damn, I swear by this one. It goes on like a lip gloss but dries like a matte balm. It smells like vanilla. It doesn’t feather and it doesn’t heavily dry your lips out. Put it on in the morning and it survives light kissing, heavy drinking, heavier eating, accidental face wiping, and general life until nighttime.
This is not sponsored, I just feel like it is my duty as a Lipstick Fairy to send this info into the masses. Take it, love it, thank me later.
“Maybe this will
in fifteen years,
when my foundation
is made from something
a little more stable,
but right now,
“I don’t think
of you like that,”
and I hear
inside of me.”—Wooden Interior, Concrete Exterior | Lora Mathis
I can’t write on my blog because he might read it. He says he likes girls like me, girls who are quiet and unassuming on the surface, yet so dark to the touch. You’ve got skin like suicide, he says. Skin like jumping out of a burning building. Heart like a car crash. Eyes like you’ve heard this all before.
I think you’re seeing me as more than I am, I tell him. What makes you say that? Because, I say. You’re boxing me into some tragedy. What if I want to be a soap opera? Or a comedy? You, he says, looking at me very seriously. You were not made to be enjoyed and then forgotten.
I am trying to wrap my head around being everything to someone. I remind myself that this is what I’ve always wanted-to be an idea, elusive and free, floating in and out of people’s lives. This is what I’ve asked for, but I never expected it to feel this lonely.
I am not simply tragedy. Not just epic novel, everlasting play, straight-to-VHS sob story. I contain elements of more, with my skin like a drugstore paperback, heart like a scratched record, and eyes like I’ve skipped ahead and read the last page. I am not not looking for a writer to brand my story. Nor am I a book you can store alongside your other tragedies. I am the whole damn library.
”—If You Write Me Off As A Tragedy, Don’t Be Surprised By My Twist Ending | Lora Mathis (via lora-mathis)
Jordan is everything to me all at once. She is a girl I’ve been in love with since 2008. She is my Editor-in-Chief. She is my ex-apartmentmate. She is the one I trust behind the wheel while driving down an unlit Dune Road in the Hamptons at 4:00 am. I have been in the passenger seat for this drive she describes time and time again, but I have also met her on either side when she has done it alone. We chose to go to college five hundred miles away to be in a place unlike the one we grew up, but getting there, both physically and spiritually, was more than we agreed to. And now four years after leaving that place, getting anywhere in our lives is in the same way, the journey of an antevasin. In a way that perhaps no one but her would understand, she is living on the border of herself.
jordan outdid herself on this one, y’all. i felt every feeling along with her from the beginning, i shook myself out as if i were getting out of the car upon finishing it. this piece is her soul, and it is also a tiny bit of mine (and sometimes that hurts to see, and sometimes it is beautiful. this time, its beautiful).
click through on the read more link. you won’t regret it.
do you know what it’s like, to feel your pulse in your throat? to want to peel your own skin off? there’s a feeling i know that demands i stand before you, down to the sinew (once the muscle mass appears, however, that’ll be gone too. i felt you should know). i wanna be down to the bones of it, to a state where i can’t be ashamed and where i can control every single impulse that i have.
don’t look, i’m digging my fingernails into my own skin again be quiet, there are already enough voices preaching the book of fools in my brain don’t touch me, my scars are tingling and i’m walking on tightropes these days
these days when i just can’t turn these feelings off (my lighting bill is off the charts with all the energy i’ve been utilizing lately. i felt you should know), these days when i have thoughts pouring out of me like a river, like a stream, like a goddamn babbling brook (on and on and on, i felt you should know).
if emotions were water, i’d have enough to drench the sahara if my balance were impeccable, i’d still crash sideways into you like i was roller coaster drunk
i don’t know how many times i’ve tried to take these words back; a reclamation if you must it has become a simple matter of fact that this isn’t a matter of anything, in fact
this skin isn’t mine, not really (it never has been, i felt you should know) any more than you might be mine (i’m likely to wreck you, i felt you should know.)