Alternatives to Amazon
If you can’t make it to a bookshop, can’t find the book you want or just prefer buying online, here’s some alternatives to Amazon UK and The Book Depository for online book shopping.

Hive (free delivery, plus 5% goes to an indie bookshop of your choice)
Wordery (free delivery)
Best Little Bookshop (free delivery)
Waterstones (free delivery)
Daunt Books

If bruise were a colour

I’d paint my walls with it.

Some days they’d look like flowers
blooming beneath Winter skies
when the snow’s stopped falling
for a little while to let us breathe.

Other days, they’d be paint water
spilt on the floor and we’d lie arms
outstretched over them, staring at
the ceiling, soaking up our mess.
We’d make snow angels.

Then there are days when I could
stand so still, back pressed closely,
so hard on the wall and you wouldn’t
even see me. You’d pass by like the
breeze and I’d be the music sheets
fluttering quietly to the floor.

Your violin won’t be able to mask
the sound your fists make when
they collide with my ribs forever,
you know.


She puts her hands on either side of my face, and the room falls away. I have never gotten so lost in a kiss before.
And then, the space between us explodes. My heart keeps missing beats and my hands cannot bring her close enough to me. I taste her and realize I have been starving.
I have loved before, but it didn’t feel like this.
I have kissed before, but it didn’t burn me alive.
Maybe it lasts a minute, and maybe it’s an hour. All I know is that kiss, and how soft her skin is when it brushes against mine, and that even if I did not know it until now, I have been waiting for this person forever.
—  Jodi Picoult, Sing You Home

she is a glass of sherry and your hands shake. she
is the color of the moon towards the end of october
and you want to cup your hands to catch her.
her smile is how it feels when you slip into warm clothing, her
eyes are a bonfire where everyone is laughing and some kid
is playing guitar quietly and your crush is sitting
right next to you

her poet heart is so fragile sometimes we wonder
if she will come apart but the thing about poets is
they can take agony and shape it into buildings
and she has taken every bit of your agony and shaped
you into something beautiful

she is warm rain on an upturned face, she is
an unexpected honest compliment, she
can tell that you’re not just tired you’re also
empty of all emotion
and she will hold your hand while you struggle
to overcome that, she is the feeling you get
when a butterfly chooses you to land on,
she is safety and she is home
and she belongs
to you alone.

—  "I can trust her with anything and she’s understanding and smart and I feel like she’s the only person who understands me.” // r.i.d
Depression really is a sickness. It’s like getting a cold. One day, you’ll feel slightly off. You’ll think to yourself, ‘this is weird, it’s a beautiful day but I kind of don’t like anything,’ and shrug it off. The next day you’ll sit in your room for a while, unable to do anything because you just feel this sort of overwhelming mental cloud in your mind. ‘Why should I do anything?’ you wonder, ‘This is all stupid.’ The next day it’s in full effect, this mental cold, and your brain can’t breathe right and the weight is heavier. It’s like a flu in your mind. So you just curl up in a blanket, not wearing any clothes, with no physical impairments to speak of, and ride it out. You sob, you remember every horrible thing you’ve ever done, you think about how the future will surely bring nothing but failure. You can go out, you can see people, you can be yourself but it’s like the whole time you can’t breathe. Then, hopefully the day after (but sometimes it can be weeks) it’s just gone. You’re better. You can, in a sense, breathe out of that stuffed-up nostril again. Anyone who suffers from this, I just want you to know: I feel you, and it sucks. I like to take selfies when I’m bawling, because it makes me laugh and brings me out of it, a bit. But there’s no real cure. We’re here for each other, and that’s all we have.
Letter to the Past

I have never been one to write letters that begin with dear

I have never been one to write letters at all, actually

I have never been one to say hello or smile that much

because I hate my voice and how my mouth curls

so crudely into something more of a grimace.

For me the past isn’t a series of events that had trans

pired, I don’t believe anything ever really ends

and history repeats itself anyway, doesn’t it?

Just yesterday, for instance, a stranger smiled at me

from across the street and it reminded me

so much of you that I started to cry right there

and when I looked up, he was gone and I felt

a little bit better. What I mean is that the pain

won’t ever really go away, would it?

Because for me, the past is you

and I’ve never really been one to say goodbye.


Just look at us. Everything is backwards. Everything is upside-down. Doctors destroy health, lawyers destroy justice, universities destroy knowledge, governments destroy freedom, the major media destroy information, and religion destroys spirituality.
—  Michael Ellner