Punching yourself in the face as a means of self-defense. Your friends asking why your right cheek is swollen as you say, “I tripped.” Chewing on your tongue to keep yourself quiet. Making a hole in your throat every time you want to speak. Smoking six cigarettes before it’s even three p.m. Living off of frozen macaroni and cheese and coffee. Texting your friends back a few hours too late. Saying you’re sick. You’re tired. You’re busy. Closing the door to your bedroom. Closing the blinds. Forgetting you exist. Pulling the blankets over your head and not moving. Sleep as a means of escape. Sleep as a means of flirting with “goodbye.” Sleep as death, without the commitment. Same songs on repeat. Or even worse, silence. Your bedroom like a tomb. Your bedroom like foreshadowing. Bathroom tiles stained with blood. Bottle of pills in the medicine cabinet, but who the fuck goes because of ibuprofen? Belly empty. Eyes drooping. Head like a woodpecker tapping relentlessly. Begging, let me in. Saying, forgive me, I’ve changed. And you, the sucker, taking it back every time. The lies that get you out of bed. The lazy-eyed laments that are better tucked away. Heart like a sick dog with its head bowed panting, put me outside. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay. I’ll be okay.
- The Lies That Get You Out Of Bed | Lora Mathis  (via numb-hands)

(Source: lora-mathis, via lout-ka)


 Nobuyoshi Araki

Milo Manara
There is something in me, I can’t define but it hurts all the time.
- A.H. (via halluzinogen)

(Source: deindealer, via nevidljive-terazije-deactivated)


A Bagful of Fleas (Pytel Blech), 1962, dir. Věra Chytilova