PAC

(Source: darling-you-willbe-okay, via vogliourlare)

(Source: raphacoot, via ascriveresuimuri)

robotgod:

 

Valentin Hirsch tattoos are amazing

murderous-mind:

kyledion:

asianrebel:

thecordeliascottanon:

Your boyfriend walks into the house, to greet you after a long hard day at school. You had called him that morning, telling him you didn’t feel well and that you weren’t going to show up. You told him not to get the homework for you and to just stay away until you got better, because you didn’t want him to get the bug. Of course, thinking nothing of it, your boyfriend agreed and said to get better. That day, you decided to do the unthinkable; kill yourself. You decided to cut, to bleed to death. Your parents were gone, no one was home, it was the perfect time. Writing your goodbye notes, you set them on the kitchen table, hoping that once your parents would come home, they would realize after they read the letters, it was too late; you were already gone. The walk to the bathroom to get your razors was a long walk, the last walk of your life. You think about your boyfriend, how clueless he was. He had no idea what you were preparing for. He didn’t get that he’d never get to see you again. You think about your parents. You think about how much you thought you’ve disappointed them, how you didn’t think they were proud of you. You thought about your best friend at school. How much you loved her, the memories you both shared. You smiled at the thought but then remembered what you were about to do and the smile faded. You finally reach the bathroom. Taking a deep breath, you go to the cabinet and get what you need to get to get the job done. Before you slice your skin, you whisper, “I’m sorry.” and slice over the delicate part of your body. The blood pours out of your wrist, you fall to the ground, gasping in pain. Your eyes flutter, closing, as the pain becomes unbearable. Blood trickles next to the floor where you lay, getting all over your favorite outfit. You take a deep breath before slipping into a slumber.

Meanwhile, your boyfriend decides it would be a good idea to come and give you some soup for lunch. He usually just walks in, so he opens the door to your house, hollering your name. When no one answers, he walks further into the corridor, looking left and right. Of course, the bathroom is to the right of the room, the door wide open. Your body lays in a pool of blood near the open door, your body laying against the cabinets. Your boyfriend’s mouth is an “O” shape, too much in shock to let out a sound. But he quickly snaps out of it, running over to where you lay. He picks up your body, shaking it gently and saying your name. When you don’t respond, he starts shaking you more violently, raising his voice. Still, no answer. Your boyfriend is now crying, tears streaming down his face. He still continues to scream your name, hoping for an answer. He gets none. He stops shaking your body, laying his head on your stomach, bawling his eyes out.

After a few minutes, he calms down, grabbing his cell phone and dialing the number everyone knows well; 911. The police rush over, your boyfriend never leaving your side. After being rushed to the hospital, a few hours later, it is announced that you didn’t make it. Your boyfriend falls into shock, not registering the fact that you aren’t on the earth anymore. Your parents weep violently in each others arms, repeating “It’s all our faults.” Your best friend? She’s fallen into the chairs of the waiting room, crying so hard, she’s about to throw up. Everyone in the waiting room is staring at your small group, feeling for them.

A week or so later, there’s a funeral held for you. 500 people and more show up to honor you. The whole service is filled with tears and sadness. Not one person is smiling or even attempting to smile. Everyone knows that maybe if they were a little nicer, you might still be here. Everyone in the room blames themselves. Your boyfriend, hasn’t spoken to anyone since the night. Your best friend, hasn’t eaten in days, maybe a scrap of food every now and then, but not more than a meal. Your parents? Your mom has fallen into depression. Your dad? He’s been like your boyfriend, hasn’t spoken a word since then. Everyday, he stares at the TV with a blank expression. The whole school? There is a case in front of the school with your picture and photos of you, a tribute, you could say. No one is the same anymore. Your smile could brighten someones day. Your laugh could make someone smile, even when they didn’t want to. Your voice, when you talk, is like an angel singing.

You think no one cares? Think again.

I’m crying so hard..

Reblogging because of this^

(Source: caterinatho, via yourforeverisallthatineed-x)

cassadyblues:

Una volta, su un pezzo di carta gialla con le righe verdi,
scrisse una poesia,
e la intitolò “Chops”,
perché quello era il nome del suo cane.
E i versi parlavano di lui.
Il professore gli diede una A
e una stella dorata;
e sua madre l’appese alla porta della cucina
e la lesse a tutte le sue zie.
Era l’anno in cui Padre Tracy
portò tutti i ragazzi allo zoo,
e li lasciò cantare sull’autobus;
l’anno in cui nacque la sua sorellina,
con quelle unghiette minuscole, senza capelli.
Sua madre e suo padre si baciavano sempre,
e la ragazza che abitava dietro l’angolo gli mandò
un biglietto di San Valentino con una fila di X,
e lui dovette chiedere a suo padre che cosa significassero.
E suo padre la sera gli rimboccava sempre le coperte.
Era sempre pronto a farlo.

Una volta, su un pezzo di carta bianca con le righe blu,
scrisse una poesia,
e la intitolò “Autunno”
perché quella era la stagione che stava vivendo,
e i versi parlavano di questo.
Il professore gli diede una A
e gli chiese di scrivere in modo più chiaro;
sua madre non l’appese alla porta della cucina,
perché aveva appena imbiancato.
E i ragazzi gli dissero
che Padre Tracy fumava sigari,
e lasciava i mozziconi sui banchi,
e a volte questi facevano dei buchi.
Era l’anno in cui sua sorella mise gli occhiali
con le lenti spesse, e la montatura nera;
e la ragazza che abitava dietro l’angolo rise,
quando le chiese di andare a vedere Babbo Natale.
E i ragazzi gli spiegarono perché
i suoi genitori continuavano a baciarsi:
suo padre non gli rimboccava mai le coperte,
e s’infuriava se glielo chiedeva piangendo.

Una volta, su un pezzo di carta strappato dal suo taccuino,
scrisse una poesia,
e la intitolò “Innocenza: una domanda”,
perché quello era il quesito che poneva su di lei,
e i versi parlavano di questo.
Il suo professore gli diede una A,
e gli lanciò uno sguardo strano, serio;
e sua madre non l’appese alla porta della cucina,
perché non gliela fece mai leggere.
Era l’anno che Padre Tracy morì,
e lui dimenticò come finiva
il Credo degli Apostoli.
Sorprese sua sorella a fare sesso
In veranda, sul retro;
e suo padre e sua madre non si baciavano mai,
e non si parlavano.
E la ragazza che abitava dietro l’angolo
si truccava troppo,
e lui tossiva quando la baciava,
ma la baciava lo stesso,
perché era la cosa giusta da fare.
Alle tre del mattino s’infilava nel letto,
e suo padre russava rumorosamente.

Ecco perché, sul retro di un sacchetto di carta marrone,
provò a scrivere un’altra poesia,
e la intitolò “Il nulla assoluto”,
perché i versi, in realtà, parlavano di questo.
E si diede una A,
e si tagliò i suoi dannatissimi polsi.
E l’appese alla porta del bagno,
perché questa volta, pensò, non sarebbe riuscito
a raggiungere la cucina.

- ragazzo da parete. 

Noi Siamo Infinito. 

(via ilbelcoloredeifiori)