I'm Jess, but you can call me Alaska if you prefer. I like books, nosebleeds, gardens, floral prints, pretty things, spring and Sylvia Plath.
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"It didn’t matter in the end how old they had been, or that they were girls,
but only that we had loved them, and that they hadn’t heard us call;
still do not hear us, calling out of those rooms where they went to be alone
for all time, alone in suicide, which is deeper than death,
and where we will never find the pieces to put them back together."
The Virgin Suicides
You begin to forget what it means to live. You forget things. You forget that you used to feel alright. You forget what it means to feel alright because you feel like shit all the time, and you can’t remember what it was like before. People take the feeling of full for granted. They take for granted the feeling of steadiness, of hands that do not shake, heads that do not ache, throats not raw with bile and small rips of fingernails forced to haste to the gag spot; stomachs that do not begin to wake up in the night, calves and thighs knotting in muscles that are beginning to eat away at themselves - they may or may not be awakened at night by their own inexplicable sobs.
— Wasted, Marya Hornbacher (via expose)