sore must be the storm

ask   self    theme
©

Lis. 19. film enthusiast. english major. etcetera, etcetera ☾


When I get home I am going to pack and kill the fattest bowl of my short, brief life, and melt into my couch because fuck all the rest

a bullet through my fucking brain would be the cherry on top of this shitty Sunday

observando:

Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm,…