I sold my soul to the open road.

(Source: peterrchavez)

29 May

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This photo was reblogged from your-knight-in-shining-amour and originally by peterrchavez.

23 May

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This photo was reblogged from alwayswallflower and originally by confesionesdeunamitomana.

23 May

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This photo was reblogged from emmmmmaaax and originally by sextomic.

Seatbelt Hands

She’s the kind of lady who calls everybody baby. Honey, sugar, sweetie.. she’s always making friends. And she keeps us all locked outside her thick, leather skin. She always starts with a smile, it’s small and butter yellow but easier than a handshake, doesn’t like her hands touched. She tans a lot, gets burnt a lot smoking through the cartons. She was born on the fourth of July with her hand over her heart, no one ever told her to guard her heart. She was an angel for halloween once, never again. And for Christmas every year, she’s haunted by demons. They tell her they love her.

She used to believe in innocence until she lost it. She has cats and collectors plates to keep her sane, watching tv in her favorite chair.. both of which are rented. She’s alone, and she surrounds herself with loners. Her life is a loan, lent out to anyone who will own her waiting for the night to sweep her off her feet, while she mops the bathroom floor. Hoping for a winning ticket or a man to treat her right. But they’re both a gamble and she’s been a loser all her life. And if she had a nickel for every time she’s been punched or kicked, she’d put it together, try to buy some happiness. They always tell her they love her, and then they take something from her.

She would always show us her dreams, they were crumpled up like leaves from holding on too tight, scattered in her shoebox coffin on the cardboard walls covered in butterflies. She’s got love in her heart for her babies, and hope in her mind for tomorrow and blood on her hands that only she sees, holding the last bit of time that’s borrowed. But you never know where that heart has been, and we’ll never know how hard it’s been. I wanna cut open my chest and let her in, but that won’t fix what needs to mend, and she stands there unlit cigarette in hand filling up that empty hole with anything that’ll pour. Insides hanging out like a flare warning. There’s beauty in that pain, can you see it? She’s crashing through life with seatbelt hands, one accident away from a miracle. And there’s an honesty there, but I can’t take it all in. She hides the worst of it in the wrinkles, that’s the ache you get when there’s no where else to go. And she’s got no where else to go, she doesn’t want to go there.