muresetivoire:

Everybody moved on, I stayed there, dust collected on my pinned up hair

metamorphesque:

I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of the figs I would choose.

Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar

rhaegalsblog:

evermore

iwatchyougo-deactivated20210623:

red (taylor’s version)