Who hasn’t asked himself, am I a monster or is this what it means to be human?
Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star (via houselannister)

(Source: millionsmillions)

Let them do their worst,
Let them bury me with the Romantics.

From Matins by Louise Glück (via hush-syrup)
I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on the top of the beer can.
Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via introspectivepoet)
I considered suicide, but I felt a strange fondness for my body, my life. Scarred as they were, they were mine.
Charles Bukowski, Ham on Rye (via fakinq-glory)
This is my skin. This is not your skin, yet you are under it.
Iain Thomas, I Wrote This For You  (via mcqueencat)

(Source: larmoyante)

When one has come as far in meaninglessness as I
each word is interesting again:
Finds in the loam
That you turn with an archeological spade:
The little word “you”
perhaps a bead
that once hung from someone’s neck
The grand word “I”
perhaps a flint shard
that someone in his toothlessness used to scrape his tough

Gunnar Ekelöf, “When one has come as far” (via heteroglossia)