(Source: loveonstereo, via slutlake)

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(Source: mia-redworth, via dreamdeath)

(Source: numbscum)

(via church4cutegrls)

there is simultaneously something wrong with me and nothing wrong with me. i held these three pills in my hands for a few minutes before popping them in my mouth and chasing them down with a beer you handed me. remember that time we bought a cheap jug of wine and finished it off, lighting cigarettes and putting them out on the insides of our wrists. i picked at those scabs so often “i can’t feel anything, i can’t feel anything, i can’t feel anything”. i am somehow content (has the klonopin kicked in already?). maybe because i’m not really here. my body isn’t proof that i exist. my ability to feel something, anything. that’s proof. self destruction as a form of art. suicide as a sort of present, or whatever it was that david foster wallace once said to me in a dream.

maybe i dreamt it,

but the mouth shaped bruises on my shoulders tell me it was real.

 

 

(via church4cutegrls)

(Source: gutaigroup, via church4cutegrls)

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(Source: euo, via church4cutegrls)

hey, you fucking assholes, this is my face. stop changing the source. i refuse to promote your shitty soft grunge blogs.

hey, you fucking assholes, this is my face. stop changing the source. i refuse to promote your shitty soft grunge blogs.

(Source: windtravelers, via numbscum)

(Source: gnoth, via monochrombissquits)