foolish humans.

Monica. Aus.
Each man kills
the things he loves.

mood words:
i don't understand
what have i become to you

my instagram @misssmonicaa my twitter


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" I once fell in love
with a girl whose hands
were stained in black and blue
ink from soaking her palms
in poetry lines, trying to feel
the meaning within the verses
of hopeless romantics words
to see if it was actually as
sincere as they said.
Her mouth bled out black
from trying to digest all of that
pretty. She wanted to be seen
as a sonnet of love, but only
ended up sick from falsity
that rested inside of their
so called truth. She craved
creativity, sucked on the nectar
of forgivable fruit in hopes
that she could someday
be forgiven too. But no one
ever told her how much she
would have to eat to be cleaned
of her sins, to be free
of the life that she did not
create for herself. So every
night after her mother tucked
her into her bed, she would
slip from the chain of covers
and inhale the scent of hopeful
rhymes, and imagine herself
caught between the dreams
of a better tomorrow
and a more promising
kind of poetry that had the power
to show her how beautiful
her insides really were.

— "Her own kind of genre," - Colleen Brown (via mostlyfiction)
" Are we dating? Are we fucking? Are we best friends? Are we something - inbetween that? Truth is, I wish we never fucked and I mean that. "

— Heartbeat - Childish Gambino (via georgia-millroy)
" This is the real secret of life — to be completely engaged with what you are doing in the here and now. And instead of calling it work, realize it is play. "

— Alan Watts (via iamcharliesangel)