Promise Me Something? Never Promise Me Anything.

I punched a wall. And then I punched it a few more times. It was the first time I felt anything all day.

(via 50shades-of-you-and-i)

              my pain doesn’t make me stronger            it makes me crueler ;

✉️ | DANNIE & TATE

dannie: ha. i feel that.

dannie: not much changes for me in terms of that shit.

dannie: were you around for that crazy storm?

tate: i don't blame you for that.

tate: yeah, i was. i walked around in it for a few hours. until jaxon found me, then he made me go inside.

                         “ Why are you always so pessimistic? “

    —– “ вecaυѕe… тнen, ιт doeѕn’т HURT ѕo                мυcн wнen everyтнιng   F A L L S   A P A R T. “

I am troubled and harsh and hopeless. Though I have love inside me. But I don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it scratches like barbs.

Clarice Lispector, tr. by Elizabeth Lowe, from Água Viva / The Stream of Life (via violentwavesofemotion)

knoxaf:

“A fan?” Oh boy, Knox did not have the heart to tell… the hell is his name again? Leaning over to check the paper work on the desk; Tate. How was he going to tell Tate there was only a crappy air system in the building and no fans… He’s got an idea. “Say no more, I got you,” Knox replies a bit too fast. Picking up a blank piece of paper from the printer at the desk and Knox gets to work. After folding the paper and taking a staple to the end of it; he made a fan.

Oh, this guy was gonna kill him. Knox knows it or he might get a chuckle; he’s taking the risk. “This should work for you,” he spoke while getting up from his seat. Walking towards the cell and presented his hard work; a paper fan. “There is plenty more where this came from.”

Tate’s eyes stayed closed while he heard the officer rustle around, not paying much attention as he assumed he was fetching a fan. His head was pounding, the whole act of getting arrested sobering him up way too much for his own liking. The feeling of the cold wall in that cell was becoming a little too familiar and he let out a rather loud sigh. At the officer’s words he opened his eyes again, squinting at him in the sudden bright light until he realized he had just made a makeshift paper fan. “This is what my taxes pay for. Perfect.” He mumbled, not making a move to retrieve the paper fan. Instead Tate reached down and peeled his shirt off, completely forgetting about the scarring he normally made sure to cover up carefully. He was too drunk and too hot to care at this point. Leaning back once again, his eyes closed. The bright lights in the cell were not helping his pounding head.