one breaks my body, and the other breaks my soul


Motel, Raton, New Mexico, 1980 — Steve Fitch

Motel, Raton, New Mexico, 1980 — Steve Fitch

(Source: wandrlust, via alexithymiadaily)

it aches because I am deeply uncomfortable, embroiled in
a life that was not tailored to me, almost as if I
messed up my first chance so badly that my second
was in penance only,

and my god am I
uncomfortable, in this house, in this skin
that was made for someone else,
measured to the frame of someone else, with I
as the replacement photograph, faded and undeniably
tattered

and it occurs to me that I prefer pain to this
discomfort, because at least there is some solace in pain, the
knowledge that this pain is of some use to me; what am I to
do with discomfort?

I am lost in this house, in this skin and
the map I need to find my way out was buried, along
with the previous (and proper) occupant of this house,
this skin

— l.c.  (via goldencages)

(Source: corrodings, via idreamanocean)

suedetaxi:

Drive

It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, run out on him for a few days, just to get her bearings back. Just to see who she could be without him and the mess they’d made together shackled around her ankles. But it was the first time she’d ever truly considered not going back.
The day before, she’d been on her way home from Albuquerque with the cd case in her lap, the plastic wrapping rustling with every bounce of her knees. They’d agreed to do it this way, to forego iTunes and get the real deal. They needed something tangible, some little piece of something they could touch and possess, however trivial it may be.
Years ago, she’d memorized the route to New York, the roads she might one day take up and out of her self-imposed New Mexican exile. She’d imagine herself driving into the sunrise, wailing along with the radio to some old country tune about “goin’ home to your darlin’.”
It was all just a fantasy though, and she knew it. There was no home—no one—to go home to. Rachel had probably stopped waiting for Finn to come back long ago, and she’d never been waiting for Quinn.
And who was Lucas to Rachel? Nobody. A stranger dressed in familiar flesh. That was all.
Nevertheless, on that December afternoon, with Rachel’s face staring up at her from her lap, the list of roads came back to her in a whisper, and she’d driven right past her exit for La Cienega and crossed the border into Colorado. (x)

suedetaxi:

Drive

It wasn’t the first time she’d done this, run out on him for a few days, just to get her bearings back. Just to see who she could be without him and the mess they’d made together shackled around her ankles. But it was the first time she’d ever truly considered not going back.

The day before, she’d been on her way home from Albuquerque with the cd case in her lap, the plastic wrapping rustling with every bounce of her knees. They’d agreed to do it this way, to forego iTunes and get the real deal. They needed something tangible, some little piece of something they could touch and possess, however trivial it may be.

Years ago, she’d memorized the route to New York, the roads she might one day take up and out of her self-imposed New Mexican exile. She’d imagine herself driving into the sunrise, wailing along with the radio to some old country tune about “goin’ home to your darlin’.”

It was all just a fantasy though, and she knew it. There was no home—no one—to go home to. Rachel had probably stopped waiting for Finn to come back long ago, and she’d never been waiting for Quinn.

And who was Lucas to Rachel? Nobody. A stranger dressed in familiar flesh. That was all.

Nevertheless, on that December afternoon, with Rachel’s face staring up at her from her lap, the list of roads came back to her in a whisper, and she’d driven right past her exit for La Cienega and crossed the border into Colorado. (x)

(Source: respectly)

He’d plot out little scenarios in his head, sometimes, of what those first few days after the escape must have been like: Brittany trying to explain to a stoic Santana about the “Finn suit.” Santana allowing herself a small empathetic smile at what she had to guess was a story Brittany had made up in a well-intentioned effort to make sense out of the senselessness of it all. He knew everybody probably blamed their disappearance on Quinn. Maybe they even thought she’d gotten herself knocked up again, and rather than face the repeated shame, had scurried off in the night, dragging poor hapless Finn along with her. Kurt was the only one who really knew the truth, but she doubted he’d stand up for her. Why would he, when she’d never been bothered to show him the same kindness?
But that last night in Lima? Those last moments with Rachel? That was a box best left untouched. The one other time he’d let himself go through it, he’d woken up in the hospital, alone and terrified. When he was discharged, Vanessa brought him home again, but they didn’t speak for three days. And during that time, she made herself believe that he’d somehow known she’d spent that night chasing muscle relaxers with scotch to visions of Rachel, and that that was why he’d been so angry. It was just easier to accept his jealousy than to even begin to think about how badly she’d scared him, how pissed he was at her for trying to leave him again.
At some point during her stay at the Hudson-Hummel house as Finn, Carole had said to her that all that mattered was doing the right thing, even if it was months down the line. It had occurred to Quinn at the time that Finn had probably been raised on sentiments like that; it explained a lot about his complete willingness to screw things up and his ridiculous, blind faith that everything would eventually work out. But it ran totally counter to the Fabray philosophy in which the wrong thing, once done, was all that mattered, regardless of how many right things you tried to do to make up for it.
Still, Lucas wanted to believe that what Carole had said was true. Because for all the mistakes they’d made, they’d done the right thing, eventually, in leaving.
Lucas hoped that, somehow, that would make some sort of difference in the end. (x)

He’d plot out little scenarios in his head, sometimes, of what those first few days after the escape must have been like: Brittany trying to explain to a stoic Santana about the “Finn suit.” Santana allowing herself a small empathetic smile at what she had to guess was a story Brittany had made up in a well-intentioned effort to make sense out of the senselessness of it all. He knew everybody probably blamed their disappearance on Quinn. Maybe they even thought she’d gotten herself knocked up again, and rather than face the repeated shame, had scurried off in the night, dragging poor hapless Finn along with her. Kurt was the only one who really knew the truth, but she doubted he’d stand up for her. Why would he, when she’d never been bothered to show him the same kindness?

But that last night in Lima? Those last moments with Rachel? That was a box best left untouched. The one other time he’d let himself go through it, he’d woken up in the hospital, alone and terrified. When he was discharged, Vanessa brought him home again, but they didn’t speak for three days. And during that time, she made herself believe that he’d somehow known she’d spent that night chasing muscle relaxers with scotch to visions of Rachel, and that that was why he’d been so angry. It was just easier to accept his jealousy than to even begin to think about how badly she’d scared him, how pissed he was at her for trying to leave him again.

At some point during her stay at the Hudson-Hummel house as Finn, Carole had said to her that all that mattered was doing the right thing, even if it was months down the line. It had occurred to Quinn at the time that Finn had probably been raised on sentiments like that; it explained a lot about his complete willingness to screw things up and his ridiculous, blind faith that everything would eventually work out. But it ran totally counter to the Fabray philosophy in which the wrong thing, once done, was all that mattered, regardless of how many right things you tried to do to make up for it.

Still, Lucas wanted to believe that what Carole had said was true. Because for all the mistakes they’d made, they’d done the right thing, eventually, in leaving.

Lucas hoped that, somehow, that would make some sort of difference in the end. (x)

(Source: jewls-verne, via twelveclara)

As requested by the wonderful Dali, my own personal mix of Unique Disaster/bodyswap songs.

(Source: 8tracks.com)

dalilola:

Under My Skin » a body swap mix inspired by mildlyattractivegroove’s Unique Disaster (read, listen*poem by Elizabeth Bishop

Part i : The Plan
Fade Together | Franz Ferdinand
Must Get Out | Maroon 5
A Girl, a Boy, and a Graveyard | Jeremy Messersmith

Part ii : Identity
Smoke and Mirrors | Goyte
I’ve Got You Under My Skin | Frank Sinatra
The Perfect Fit | The Dresden Dolls

Part iii : Love
Lilac Wine | Jeff Buckley
The Mountains Win Again | Blues Traveler

Part iv : Wishes
Wishing Well | The Airborne Toxic Event
Seven Day Mile | The Frames

Part v : Delusions
Just a Faint Line | Azure Ray
This is the Day | The The

(Source: tattooeyes)

arcroll:

| M O T E L |

Setting her phone back down next to the still-unopened cd, she sank into the bed and closed her eyes, desperate for sleep. But something about the feeling of the sheets on her skin, the smell hanging in the air, kept pulling her thoughts back toward that night almost five years ago, the night they’d run out of options and fled Lima for good.
The Wuthering Heights audiobook had gotten them through the first leg of the drive without having to speak to one another.
But that night she’d woken up sobbing into some sour-smelling mattress in a motel just like this one on the Missouri-Oklahoma border where he’d stowed them for the night, screaming at him to take her back. And when he’d reached to try and quieten her, she’d jerked back violently against him, elbowing him hard in the cheek. He’d managed to hold onto her anyway, and it made her stomach lurch at the reminder of how small he was in her body, and how difficult and awkward it felt for him to try to curl himself around her.
It had occurred to her then, that if he’d given it even a minute’s worth of thought, he’d have figured it out, the reason why she’d wanted to go back so badly, the only thing she had left to go back for. But instead, he’d just mumbled sleepily and held onto her as tightly as he could while she’d thrashed and wailed and tired herself out, and she’d fallen asleep again with him pressed up firmly against her back.
In the morning, the bruise she’d given him had already begun to ripen into a purplish black, and even though at the sight of it she’d felt a flash of guilt over having hit a girl, there had been something so oddly gratifying about seeing her pain painted so blatantly on her own face. It was a feeling she immediately realized she’d have to tamp down, the overwhelming desire to hurt him, just so she could watch her own body suffer. (x) View high resolution

arcroll:

| M O T E L |

Setting her phone back down next to the still-unopened cd, she sank into the bed and closed her eyes, desperate for sleep. But something about the feeling of the sheets on her skin, the smell hanging in the air, kept pulling her thoughts back toward that night almost five years ago, the night they’d run out of options and fled Lima for good.

The Wuthering Heights audiobook had gotten them through the first leg of the drive without having to speak to one another.

But that night she’d woken up sobbing into some sour-smelling mattress in a motel just like this one on the Missouri-Oklahoma border where he’d stowed them for the night, screaming at him to take her back. And when he’d reached to try and quieten her, she’d jerked back violently against him, elbowing him hard in the cheek. He’d managed to hold onto her anyway, and it made her stomach lurch at the reminder of how small he was in her body, and how difficult and awkward it felt for him to try to curl himself around her.

It had occurred to her then, that if he’d given it even a minute’s worth of thought, he’d have figured it out, the reason why she’d wanted to go back so badly, the only thing she had left to go back for. But instead, he’d just mumbled sleepily and held onto her as tightly as he could while she’d thrashed and wailed and tired herself out, and she’d fallen asleep again with him pressed up firmly against her back.

In the morning, the bruise she’d given him had already begun to ripen into a purplish black, and even though at the sight of it she’d felt a flash of guilt over having hit a girl, there had been something so oddly gratifying about seeing her pain painted so blatantly on her own face. It was a feeling she immediately realized she’d have to tamp down, the overwhelming desire to hurt him, just so she could watch her own body suffer. (x)

(via barefootmarley)

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