(Source: aurevoir-violet, via anxious-malcontents)

(via anxious-malcontents)

(Source: prettypeonies, via fuckyeah-ballet)

Faces on the walls. They are the ghosts in my eyes.

Their faces loom, large, grey and decaying in the darkness behind your eyelids. In the empty vacuum between your eye socket and the back of your skull. Don’t close your eyes, let your eyeballs roll backwards in your head. Or you’ll face the putrid, rotting disease that has consumed your mind.

The ghosts, they tug on my ear lobes. Playful erotic nibbles.

But pay them no mind. Pause for a moment to indulge their attention-seeking ploys and the screams begin. Like howl, like a chant, like the sound of death and hopelessness. What little is left of the soul you saved, tears like the lines of a spiderweb burning in the candle flame. 

(Source: itstawny, via fuckyeah-ballet)

(Source: lypo, via pardonmyfrench75)

(via histoiresdepetitesfilles)

(Source: fuck-oprah, via pardonmyfrench75)