And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped dark inside you so long.

Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via ughpoems)

(via aritking)

Do you remember the way the girls
would call out ‘love you!’
conveniently leaving out the ‘I’
as if they didn’t want to commit
to their own declarations.

From Self Portrait at 28 by David Berman (via hush-syrup)

(via aritking)

Loneliness is a special kind of illness. It can be loud or soft. There are no right or wrong symptoms and finding a cure is easier said than done, but when one is found, I think it surprises us. Like, how quickly we can mend our wounds or how long it takes to find the places that hurt the most.

Nicole Anderson, 12:36 a.m. (via larmoyante)

(via aritking)