i. when do we get to the part that hurts? last night was good, you were golden but c'mon, the hits are gonna start landing. eventually someone’s gonna start throwing them.
ii. you said you were confused but are you really confused? confusion doesn’t look like the way you look when you look at her but there’s fucking something there when you look at me too.
iii. so maybe this time I’m praying. maybe I’m swallowing my pride without letting it choke me. maybe I’ll get down on my knees just this once and ask for something good. you’re something good, even if I said you weren’t.
iv. but is it too late? it seemed like it wasn’t but nothing’s quite right that late at night. most things burn off when the sun rises. the fire fades out. nothing’s ever as pretty in the light
v. i want this to be pretty in the light.
that kind of love that’s “i was scared until i found you.” that kind of love that’s worth it to try romance again. the “fuck i’ll try cheesy if it just makes you smile” love, the roses and love notes and wine bottles. the twinkle light love, the “let’s go on this romantic date only to spend the whole thing being silly” love, the dancing badly to slow songs love, the “i don’t know how you make me laugh so much but seriously stop it i’m trying to drive” love. the “i trust you love,” calling late at night because a secret just welled up in my throat love, the first person i talk to so i can figure out this decision is you kind of love. the “i was hurt before and had given up but then i found you” love, the incredulous in-awe love, the wonder love, the are you actually real or am i dreaming you love. the “i didn’t believe in soulmates before you” love. that kinda love.
oh my beloved. the mountains and the streams, the oceans and the lakes, the sun and the moon, the stars and the sand all know you are my answered prayer. I have shouted from each of them searching for you for many lifetimes. now the world and all of its inhabitants will know you are my beloved
which road leads back to you? i’ll walk barefoot through thorns if only i could reach the beginning again. i’ll dig up the grave. i’ll shake the death off. i’ll decorate the abandoned house. i’ll give it cpr until it comes back gasping for air. i like when things aren’t perfect, anyway. we can cover up the bleeding parts with band-aids and kiss each others’ fault lines. this time will be better, i swear. i know you’re saying goodbye but i’m still trying to figure out ways to make this work. you’re saying our story’s over but i don’t believe you. i still think we’re going to find our way back to each other in the end. this isn’t over if i keep pretending. this isn’t over. this cannot be dead.
i met this girl in early april when everything beautiful started coming back to life and growing back. we spent our time together getting lost. i remember walking around with her for hours, laughing about everything, and not being able to find our way home. that spring, i felt some feelings inside of my chest begin to sprout for her and i knew she felt the same. we spent most of our time getting lost together that spring, but i have never felt more found in my entire life. i have never wanted to get lost so badly. we may have lost direction but we found each other. she is my north star and i will always look toward her to find my way back home.
– i found myself in her
i want you to talk to me not just about how you brought your little sister to the cinema at lunch or that you’ll be fined if you don’t pay your insurance today or how the weather where you live is different from the weather here.
i want you to trust me i want you to tell me how it felt when your grandpa died. how did you feel? how did you cope? i want you to tell me who the first girl to break your heart was. how did you get over her? are you actually completely over her?
i want you to tell me how you manage to look so incredibly happy every time i see you. what do you break down over? what makes your insides panic? i want you to tell me how you feel. i want to know your deepest and darkest corners that you hide so well.
i want to love all of you
I write poems about flowers but can’t manage to keep any alive. I spent a whole summer when I was fifteen not going to bed until the sun was up because I thought the dark was trying to eat me. Even now, when I bleed, I expect demons to seep out. My days are arranged by color; my brightest moments are always shimmering in pink. I’ve cried at too many sunsets and not enough sunrises. I don’t live anywhere near the water and can’t swim so I’m always falling in love with boys on the west coast. I collect song lyrics instead of stamps. I won’t be content with my body until it’s covered in ink and I don’t mind looking at it in a mirror. Home still feels like just another empty word I don’t fit into. I’ve never broken a bone and I guess that’s my consolation price for a jumbled mind. At twenty-one I’m still too small for most roller coasters, but can still fit on most swing sets. These days I sleep with lavender and blueberry incense on my pillow to try and keep the nightmares away. My heart is always straining against my rib cage, and I think one of these days it might liquefy and spill right through the cracks.
im just saying that i love her more than i should and it makes me queasy but it makes me happy like one of those carnival rides you tried when you were seven and whenever you think about you get this weird sad punch of nostalgia about spinning lights and a warm night where everything actually felt good. i’m just saying that a lot of people have said they love me and i’ve said the same but it wasn’t until she drove three hours out of her way just to bring me chicken noodle soup that i realized love is less about the words and more about the actions of three a.m. when you’re both drunk and honest. what i’m saying is that love looks different from the inside. like i had no idea how to read and she showed up with an entire story.
the signs as abandoned places
ARIES Abandoned gas stations, beholders of tumbleweeds and roadside tales, filled with dead fuel yet frozen in time, eyes on the passengers with their hands and hair out the window, haunted by old desert songs and engines revving behind it.
TAURUS: Abandoned bars, stools turned over, a ripped flyer shouting BABES BABES BABES hanging off the bulletin board, a lost motorcycle tire, glass shattered, and the spirit of hell still living somewhere inside.
GEMINI Ghost towns, at the base of old mountains, houses with shutters like eyes and doors like mouths, swallowing stories whole, convenience stores still stocked with stale bread, cabins and headstones still peeking out from behind fairy wood brambles, nature stretching into steel, ready to come alive with a shift of the wind.
CANCER: Abandoned motels, empty pools filled with deflated flamingos, the sign out front screaming VACANCY forever, each room a different anthology of guest book tales, smashed television monitors and a love note ( or goodbye note ) caught up in the rust of the honeymoon suite.
LEO: Abandoned theaters, stages dented with the ghosts of performances past, torn scripts scattered across floorboards in a mess of Playbills and shattered eyeglasses, broken lights and tattered dress hems, mannequins poised at an eternal act one.
VIRGO Abandoned train stations, cars sprayed in a kaleidoscope of graffiti, drifters still starting fires in some of the shells, grass growing over old gears, ghost conductors with no destination, rails intersecting at odd angles like flowers and bones.
LIBRA Abandoned campgrounds, rattlesnakes and desert blues, dead hot and forgotten, a shelled-out RV and the dry lake where the kids used to play, swallowing up broken toys and flat tents, showers crawling with critters, vintage t-shirts printed with campground bears promising that it’s still “the happiest place on earth.”
(continued in comments)
“If she asks you about me, tell her. Don’t lie and say i was just some girl you dated, she’ll see right through it.
If you tell her we were only friends
She’ll only hear half of what you say.
She will remember how you always skip certain songs - you’ll find a new excuse not to tell her every time they play on the car radio, because they are reminders of something.
She will recall that time in the mall when you let go of her hand when someone walked past wearing my perfume - your heart will stop for a moment and you’ll think about all the nights you spent cuddling my hoodie, but you’ll play it off and tell her your hand got sweaty.
If she asks who i was, lie a little,
Don’t tell her about how we planned our wedding and named all of our children. Skip the part where we conquered storms together and always came out dry.
Restrain from telling her why you cringe when someone makes a reference to Carlton
Reserve the fact you still keep all the letters i sent you at the back of your drawer along with some tearstained thoughts at the back of your pillow.
She doesn’t need to know why you reread old conversations or why i was in your search history not to mention
Why your mom mentioned me at dinner just to ask what i’ve been up to.
If she asks you who i was to you, tell her you love her, because she’s just testing to see if you pull the trigger pointed at her
You wont. Instead, you will tell her she’s beautiful to compensate for all the words you never had the guts to tell me.
You’ll will tell her she’s perfect and everything you want, for the hell of it. Just because you want to mean it, but know you never will.
She will then forget that you mentioned me in your sleep again last night.
She will ignore the way you twitch every time you hear a familiar author or see my favourite candy on the shelves at Walmart.
She will fill the void i left in your heart and plaster kisses all over your melancholy lips.
She will wash your pillows and try to replace every scent of me.
With her own promises, rewards and mistakes.
She will do this. She will, because when she asked about me she knew i was a ghost roaming your mind." (via clusterfuckofemotions)
I hate that I still think about seeing you again. In the street, at a cafe, in a crowded room. I hate that you would still affect me. I hate that we would make eye contact and I would crumble, we would small talk about everything happening in our lives, and I would have to quiet my heart from jumping out of my chest. I hate that you still get to me.
I hate that I am still proud of you when you accomplish something. I still hope that you continue to grow and succeed, I still hope that you fulfill all of those dreams you always spoke to me about. I hate that I think of you often, that I believe in you, after all of this time, after all of this hurt.
I hate that I care. I hate that I care so fucking much. That I can’t let this go, that I can’t seem to wash you off of my skin. I hate that I still think we were perfect for eachother, I hate that my head fills up with memories of you whenever I hear your name, whenever I think I hear your voice. I hate that I still want to share things with you, I still want to call you when I have a bad day, I still want to make space for you in my life.
I hate that I know better. That I asked you to show up, and you never did. That I asked you to be more for me, more for us, and you couldn’t. I hate that I loved you, and you never really loved me back, you never really tried.
And I think that is what hurts the most — that I still think you’re a good person. Despite the lack of effort, despite the fact that you truly did not care enough to make us work. I still think you’re a good person, a beautiful person, a person who deserves the world, even if you managed to break mine into pieces. I still think you and I could have made it, I still make excuses for us. I still hope.
the hardest part about leaving toxic people is that you know when you leave, they won’t chase after you. they won’t be begging on their hands and knees for you like you would have done for them. they’ll just let you walk away, never even look at you in their rear view mirror, and move on like nothing has changed. and it’s terrifying, because you’ll finally have to come to the cold hard realization that they never cared if you stayed.
“I shared some of the best and worst moments of my life with you. However, I’m afraid that we’ve really reached the end. I’ve found someone who loves me with everything I have and nothing at all and you’ve been running around this town with a girl who makes you forget that I live and breathe in the same world as you. I just want you to know that it was nice while it lasted. I enjoyed losing sleep and trying to so hard not laugh so my mother wouldn’t hear me through my bedroom walls. I’ll remember the way you allowed me to put my hands on the places you were hurting and how I trusted you enough to see me angry and sad and resentful most of all. I’ll never forget the first time you kissed me in the rain or the way nothing else seemed to matter with you. What I’m trying to say is that we grew together. In love and out of love. So thank you for walking through hell and back with me. Thank you for holding my hand when I needed it the most and for loving me in the only way you knew how. It was childish, but it was worth something and I will carry the memory of it somewhere on the inside. Although it’s over now in a way it won’t ever be. Anyhow, I wish you all the happiness in the world and so much love that your hands don’t know what to do with it.”
10 Thoughts on Being Loved by a Skinny Boy
By Rachel Wiley
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says ‘No, you are beautiful.’
I wonder why I cannot be both.
He kisses me
My college theater professor once told me
that despite my talent,
I would never be cast as a romantic lead.
We do plays that involve singing animals
and children with the ability to fly,
but apparently no one
has enough willing suspension of disbelief
to go with anyone loving a fat girl.
I daydream regularly
about fucking my boyfriend vigorously on his front lawn.
On the mornings I do not feel pretty,
while he is still asleep,
I sit on the floor and check the pockets of his skinny jeans for motive,
for a punchline,
for other girls’ phone numbers.
When we hold hands in public,
I wonder if he notices the looks —
like he is handling a parade balloon on a crowded sidewalk;
if he notices that my hands are now made of rope.
Dear Cosmo: Fuck you.
I will not take sex tips from you
on how to please a man you think I do not deserve.
He tells me he loves me with the lights on.
I can cup his hip bone in my hand,
feel his ribs without pressing very hard at all.
He does not believe me when I tell him he is beautiful.
Sometimes I fear the day he does will be the day he leaves.
The cute hipster girl at the coffee shop
assumes we are just friends
and flirts over the counter.
I spend the next two weeks
mentally replacing myself with her
in all of our photographs.
When I admit this to him
we spend the evening taking new photos together.
He will not let me delete a single one of them.
The phrase “Big girls need love too” can die in a fire.
Fucking me does not require an asterisk.
Loving me is not a fetish.
Finding me beautiful is not a novelty.
I am not a fucking novelty.
I say, ‘I am fat.’
He says, ‘No. You are so much more’,
and kisses me
Day 1: I heard the news shortly after finishing my math test. I could barely pull myself off the bathroom floor long enough to make it to my next class. Not that it mattered, I left in the middle anyway.
Day 4: Brain dead. You were brain dead. My best friend knew they pulled the plug when I started hysterically sobbing on FaceTime. She’s still trying to find the right words.
Day 9: My mom called my therapist. She spent seventy-five dollars for me to sit on a couch and cry for an hour. I couldn’t even sputter out your name.
Day 14: I had to lock myself in the bathroom until my best friend got home from her softball game. She’s the only one who even tries to understand.
Day 15: I was doing okay until my coworker said your name. I clocked in late. I couldn’t talk to anyone with a knife through my chest and mascara down my cheeks.
Day 23: I finally said it out loud. My therapist said I’m improving. I don’t have the heart to tell her I plan on going out the same way you did.
Day 31: It’s been a month and I’m still pinching myself and begging to wake up from this nightmare. It’s just a nightmare, right?
Day 36: You’re not really gone, are you?
Day 42: I still message you on Twitter every day. I wonder where the messages go.
Day 52: Happy birthday! Everyone is celebrating for you. Your name is everywhere I go.
Day 53: I finally broke. My best friend took my phone out of my hands and held me for a long time. I found a picture of your gun. Who gave you a gun?
Day 61: It still hasn’t hit me, but when it hits me, it’s gonna hit hard.
Day 64: I’m on the bathroom floor again.
Day 70: I should’ve been there for you.
Day 72: I’m so fucking sorry.
Day 79: I need you tonight more than ever.
Day 91: It still hurts just as much as it did the first day.
Day 93: Will it ever stop?
Day 97: I can still hear your laugh.
Day 100: I’ve gone completely numb.
it’s been a hundred days since she killed herself and I’m still in the denial stage (via makenos0und)
she tells me: “there’s a difference between making love and being fucked.”
i want to scald my mouth on him. i tell her that if boys were horses, he wins the triple crown. i want to make my hands into branches that grow thickets around him.
and he fucks me good. we have sex like sinners sweat in prison cells. his moans are my midnight music, and it’s an all-night concert we’re getting into. my body is a piano, and he is playing every beautiful symphony, full of competent fingerings. he is a trumpet and you know damn well that i blow him hard. we make each other blink so much bright light that the sun is ready to resign. the edges we live on are those static shock white ones where brains become silence and the world fades to want, want, want.
it’s good. it’s good. we live the way poets do, tied to nothing. spontaneous. avoiding the future.
there’s a difference between making love and being fucked. i asked him about it one night while our chests were still heaving, said that in the morning he could show me what the difference meant.
when i woke up, he had left.
And that’s about when i knew i’d been well and truly fucked // r.i.d
"i want to be next to you. before i go to bed, i want it to be you that's by my side. only you, no one else. everyday for as long as we're together. no particular reason why. i just want to sleep beside you. i want to know that i can come home to someone special waiting for me before i shut my eyes and fall into a deep slumber. i want to be able to sleep, dream, and wake up realizing that the one i love is the one living next to me every morning. i want to be next to you, because then i'll know i won't always have to be asleep for us to be together. we already are."
the thing is, somebody cares. i know your best friend seems really busy all the time and is shit at texting but she still loves you and she talk to you more than she talk to anyone else and you're the only breath of calm she has on this planet. the boy in your science class loves seeing what music you're listening to on your headphones - he has the same taste and wishes he had the nerve to ask you about it. your english teacher loves the insight you have on your papers. somebody cares. the person who lives down the street from you notices when you are sick because they don't see you stomping your way to the school bus - it's how they know it's time to get their breakfast ready. somebody is looking for you at the party, even if they don't know they're really looking for you - but when you don't show up, some part of them is disappointed. somebody is looking for you in the library, in the spot where you eat lunch, in front of that one step you always seem to trip on. i know your parents are a complicated mess and there's drama between you and your friends and your love life is sort of shaped like a constant question and everybody seems all caught up in their own lives and their own happiness and nobody really notices; but somebody always does. every face in your dreams is someone you have met, and that means that you are in a million stranger's heads. they see you when they go to bed. and somebody cares. somebody still thinks about you even though you were just person with a nice outfit or good eyeliner or a great smile because you were having one of those moments that are so charmingly in human nature or they regret not asking if you needed help when you fell or because they wonder what you were thinking about or drawing or writing or just because you're alive, and that makes you fascinating. somebody cares. when you were on break from work and saw a dog hanging his head out of the car and suddenly broke into a smile: there was a girl in the back of that car, and i was her, and i still think about you, and i hope you get more chances to smile like that.