Zayn: I always forget his name. I know his name is Luke. Luke something…
P E R F E C T H U M A N B E I N G
reblogging this because he mentioned Luke Pasqualino. oh no.
COME
COME TO THE DARK SIDE TAYLERE
WE HAVE COOKIES AND GAY BRITISH SUPERVILLAINS
IT’S GOOD HERE
tay
help me tay
tay run
imscared
Source: heleanored
gpoy it makes me so angry to see them on my dash it’s not even funny
posted this March of last year
excuse me laughing much too hard
(via clubbingattheclub)
Source: thisisnotmyfairytaleendingg
✂: post photo of yourself
æ: tell 5 things about your best friend
✌: share 5 things that you really want
♡: share 5 favourite songs
❁: share 5 favourite blogs
✓: tell 5 facts about yourself
♧: share 5 facts about your appearance
☆: share your current mood
✖: something you hate
☼: something you love
ϟ: ask anything
(via clubbingattheclub)
Source: ftemplet
It’s under his bed. He knows it’s there.
He’ll duck down, knees against the hard carpet. The outline of a shadow teases him. Fingers reach, arm stretches, breaths are choked off from the effort.
No matter how hard he tries, he can never reach it. Not even the softest touch can be made.
He’s tried moving the bed away from the wall, but it’s too heavy. It won’t budge.
Sometimes he’ll perch himself on the bed and imagine it in his lap. It’s almost like torture. All the songs in his chest, the words on his tongue, the chords ready to leak from his fingertips.
He’s never frustrated. Not angry. He settles with resignation. This is just the way it is.
At least he know’s it’s there. It’s always going to be there. Just out of reach.
He’ll never get closer. He’ll never get what he wants.
He’s a collector who collects things. Little things. Bottle tops, buttons, gum wrappers. Guitar picks, chewed up straws, packets of creamer.
Capless pens with the ink exploded and useless. Ticket stubs rubbed bare to a faded pink.
He keeps them in a box. And every day he has something new. The box never seems full, but it never seems full enough. So he keeps collecting.
They all seem innocuous. Meaningless. But Devon knows that every single one of these items means something.
He spends hours organizing them. He lines them up, one by one. Categorizes them by type. Then by color. Then shape. Even size. Trying to remember something. Anything.
When it doesn’t ever make any sense and he can’t take it anymore, he’ll thrust everything to the ground and lay his head on the table.
It’s not unusual to find, when he lifts his head, that the items have all ended up back in the box.
There’s a line up of photos pinned to the wall. Some are turned around, some are twisted upside down. Some look fresh and new, some look faded and torn. There’s hours that go by where Devon stands and stares, trying to remember names and trying to forget others.
It’s a good day when there’s the same amount of pictures on the wall as before. It’s a not-as-good day when Devon comes in with a new photo clutched in his hand, fingers shaking as he reaches up to place it against the wall.
It’s an awful day when Devon looses it and uses his nails to claw the pins off and rip the pictures down. He cries bitter tears and ends up falling asleep on top of his covers, only to wake up and see the pictures back on the wall. Arranged just as they last were.
