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PERSONAL BLOG

My name is Madi and I'm sexually fluid. I post bands/tattoos/photography/modeling/pale/black and white/scenery and basically anything I fucking like.

You can talk to me about anything and everything, I promise I'll try to respond to everyone.💕

Instagram: babyy_burrito

Snapchat: masn7

Someone’s therapist knows all about you.


01oftheboys:

I’m one of those people that if you’re not clingy with me and obsessed with me, I’m gonna think you’re not interested and I’m gonna drive myself crazy trying to figure out what I’m doing wrong. I need to be smothered and I need consistency to feel okay with where we’re at.


It’s better to have nobody than someone who is half there, or who doesn’t want to be there.

Angelina Jolie (via potayto)

oknope:

i actually messed up my life, how do i start a new account


Date yourself. Take yourself out to eat. Don’t share your popcorn at the movies with anyone. Stroll around an art museum alone. Fall in love with canvases. Fall in love with yourself.


“Home is where the heart is,” they say, but
I can’t find my heart. No wonder I never feel
at home. I get caught in bed sheets and bad
dreams about the past, pictures and memories
slap me in the face even when I’m asleep.

There’s no escape really, I use to drown in
my tears at midnight and wake up alive. Now
I realize I’m in over my head, slowly suffocating
myself with unsaid words and crowded thoughts.
Things I cannot, will not, don’t even know how to
actually say, are what bug me every single day of
every week. Leaving the house doesn’t even help
anymore, because I just want to fall back into the
waves I call covers and sleep just to forget, but
really to remember, what I’m running from.

You know, you live in a house with family, but really
what is family? I don’t remember anymore, because
it’s more like strangers you know really well, just
not enough to tell them you’re slowly dying inside
your mind. I’ve had longer conversations with
sleeping pills and the walls of my bedroom. At
least their silence doesn’t make you feel like
you’re fucking insane.

“I’m fine,” has just become the default of, “I wish
you’d stop asking, you don’t really care.”
Or maybe it’s because I’m too tired to explain what’s
wrong, or how I feel, because I live it every waking
moment. Maybe it’s the thought they would know by
looking into my lifeless eyes, there’s nothing there.
Maybe it’s the urge to tell my mother the
first time my skin was kissed, it was by the razor,
then realizing how pathetic I really am. Or maybe it’s
just the sadness talking, I don’t really know anymore.


i.c. // "What’re you running from?" (via delicatepoetry)

lameboob:

lameboob:

lameboob:

how do you make someone holy

you beat the hell out of them

my 96 year old catholic grandma told me this joke


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