fuck yeah, paint chips.

mother fuck,
rock
paper
rock.
the only tools you need.

This is a poem about the way it feels when a bloody nose
drips into the back of your throat.
This is a poem about the blades of grass that sharpen themselves
to points that snag summer feet.
This is a poem about songs where the lyrics aren’t clearly
“where” or “when” and the distinction shouldn’t matter, but it does.
This is an F when you walked out feeling A
or waking up just minutes before your alarm is set to ring.
This is how wonderful sand feels between your toes,
but how melancholy it is to shake out of clothes days later.
This is the slow drip of an ice cream cone with a faulty bottom.
This is flat tires and carsickness and mosquito bites on the back
of your knees.
This is the ache of good books ending
and the ache of good summers ending
and the ache of missing people who haven’t left you yet.

—"Icky Things" by Claire Luisa (via claireluisa)

(Source: claireluisa, via claireluisa)

vampire-bunni:

usedtodohugs:

oshiin:

how about no

Is this a Halloween decoration or a picture of a house in Australia?

In Australia all our houses look like that, we ride them to school sometimes.

vampire-bunni:

usedtodohugs:

oshiin:

how about no

Is this a Halloween decoration or a picture of a house in Australia?

In Australia all our houses look like that, we ride them to school sometimes.

(via humoristics)

itsbeentwoyears:

honestly mr brightside can be in any playlist. make out playlist? mr brightside. getting over someone? mr brightside. funeral? you bet your sweet ass mr brightside will be on it

(via textpostsandcats)