I hope
you never
regret me.

-5:00 p.m. (Please don’t ever think of me as a mistake)

(via hatelyn)



this hit me hard

this is so clever

I keep writing about you. They tell me my words are beautiful. I don’t know why. Maybe because they’re written for you. You’re beautiful but what they don’t know—what you don’t know—is I stare at this blank fucking paper and all I feel is rage anger and frustration because I write down these things and it never comes close to what I feel. If actions could be translated into words, I would write me shouting in my fucking car because your favorite song came up on my god damned pandora station again. I would write me standing in the shower while the scolding water burns my skin as I try to think of the exact moment I lost you. Then I would write me shutting off the water in total defeat because I realized I never even had you. I would write how a fire starts in my chest whenever I see a picture of you and her. I’ve never envied a stranger so much before. I would write how my eyes burn as I continue to stare at the god damned ceiling at 3am missing you. Being up that late was only fun when you were around.
I wish you were still around.
I don’t even know how to fucking end this. There’s no poetic way to say I feel like fucking shit.

Magdalena Frackowiak Backstage at Balmain Spring 2009.

“I think the most amazing fact I learned was that they have a part of the brain that we don’t have—a part that we can’t even identify. This suggests that they sense, understand, and even feel more than we do. It still blows me away to think about it.”—Gabriela Cowperthwaite, Director of Blackfish