Showing posts from September, 2014
They say there are five stages of grief.The first is when I wait for you to come home even though it’s 4.37am. I wait for you for a month, and I save portions for your dinner.The second is when I break all the cups you’ve used. I tear up all the sheets you’ve slept on. I scream at the walls for not warning me.The third is when I call and say, can we be friends? I cooked your favourite, will you come over for a last supper?The fourth is when you say no and I finish eating five tubs of ice cream in an hour. It’s when I lay in bed and cry over the clothes you left behind.The fifth is when I pack up all your things and mail them to her address. I paint the walls. I scrub the floors.We burnt alive, and I was born out of the flames.

Bravery isn’t fleeing. It’s kissing the teeth of something you know could eat you in an instant.

Fear of a small town teen.

I am afraid. Of simple things like spiders, needles and snakes. I can avoid these things though. I’m also afraid of sadness, the unknown and tomorrow. I can’t avoid this. I’m afraid that I’ll never be satisfied, never be happy, I’m afraid that I’m too weak to succeed, that I’m never going to achieve anything substantial. I’m afraid that I’ll live too long, or die too young. That I’ll never fall in love, that I’ll never see my children grow. I’m afraid that I won’t have a job that makes me happy, I won’t ever wake up with a smile. I’m afraid that I’ll hold on to people that have left, and that I’ll be forgotten by people who try to stay. That I’ll never be pretty enough, or I’ll be discriminated. That I won’t have the will to fight what’s wrong, that I’ll always be a bystander. I’m so afraid of myself too. I’m afraid that I’ll make myself feel ugly, that I’ll continue to be cruel to myself. I’m afraid that I’ll keep making myself this fearful, that I’ll be the one who ultimately stops …
It’s easy to love someone when they’re happy. What’s hard is loving someone when they’re crying on the bathroom floor at 2am because everything came crashing down at once.
( remember when he treated you like a drug he was only brave enough to take in small doses? you deserve someone who wants to die)

On boys vs. Men by Mindy

Boys are adorable. Boys trail off their sentences in an appealing way. Boys bring a knapsack to work. Boys get haircuts from their roommate, who “totally knows how to cut hair.” Boys can pack up their whole life in a duffel bag and move to Brooklyn for a gig if they need to. Boys have “gigs.” Boys are broke. And when they do have money, they spend it on a trip to Colorado to see a music festival. Boys don’t know how to adjust their conversation when they’re talking to their friends or to your parents.Until I was thirty, I only dated boys, as far as I can tell. I’ll tell you why. Men scared the shit out of me.Men know what they want. Men make concrete plans. Men own alarm clocks. Men sleep on a mattress that isn’t on the floor. Men tip generously. Men buy new shampoo instead of adding water to a nearly empty bottle of shampoo. Men go to the dentist. Men make reservations. Men go in for a kiss without giving you some long preamble about how they’re thinking of kissing you… Men know what…
I don’t think you understand that hearts don’t do that. You are not dying because it hurts. You are not dying because you’re in love with someone who couldn’t love you the same way. Your heart will just carry on beating because that’s is what heart’s do. They go on. And that is what I find so spectacular about human nature. The ability to survive despite how much it fucking hurts. So survive, okay? She’s not your be all and end all. You should never give someone that much power.

Never grow a wishbone where your backbone ought to be.

ya know when you’re crushing on someone so you notice every small damn thing about them and all those little things light you up like a bug like when they wake up and smell sleepy and warm and it bowls you over or when they stretch and their t-shirt lifts up and that strip of skin damn well sets you alight or when they’re all pink and flushed and you just wanna touch their cheek with your cheek and it’s the most innocent way of falling into a person
You’re in love with him, and he’s in love with you, and it’s like a goddamn tragedy, because you look at him and see the stars, and he looks at you and sees the sun. And you both think the other is just looking at the ground.
This is my strength: I will go quietly because it is the best thing for you.
I will close the door gently behind me and set fire to it.
I won’t come back and I will ignore the smoke signals.
I will tell my arms ‘no’ when they try to reach for you.
I will adore you so softly that the grass will shudder from the care in it.
I will leave you just as carefully. This is my strength, it is a different kind than the one you know, but it is defiantly brave just the same.

You are both a reflection of those who cannot love you.

I find it really strange that when you’re in a long distance friendship or relationship all you want to do is see that person and being around them is the biggest most wonderful deal but there are people who interact with them all the time, on the street and in the classroom and in the shops and it always makes me jealous because you want to be with this person so much and for everyone else they’re nothing special but for you they’re everything special
I don’t think I’m a wild thing. Like those girls that I write about. Like those girls who run with wolves and don’t wait for anybody. I’d wait all fucking day. I’d wait at a train station with flowers in my hands and I’d wait for the front door to open. I’d say that I love you first. I’d say it a hundred times before the words even left your lips. I’d stay. I’d look after you. I’d brush the hair out of your eyes. I wouldn’t be cold or indifferent or cruel. I’m not distancing myself from anything. I can’t. Maybe I admire the girls who run with wolves, maybe I want to be one, but today I’m not and I think that’s okay too.(or maybe I am,  at least I've been told I am.. to most people anyway. I don't really know,  I guess I'm somewhere between the crossroads of the two of those,  and I think that's actually okay as well. )

Foxes and holding hands.

'I am leaving.' 
This is the hundredth time I have said this to you. You are sitting with your feet up on our sitting room table and from across the room, I can see two foxes of fear sprint across your eyes. They hold hands, they look at me raw, and disappear. ‘I’m leaving you.’ My nails are digging crescents into my palms. ‘But,’ you scrape a hand across your jaw and consider this, ‘I love you.’ This is enough. It always is. My insides unroll for you. You tender the wounds and we play that stupid mystery game I love together and you kiss me and then we fall asleep, bodies like olive branches. The next evening, it will be the same again. I will tell you that I am going. You will soften for me. The foxes will cry at the discontent.We are loving each other futilely. We’re playing Kiss Chase on a knife edge, I say ‘I’ve finally got you’ and hold you hard enough to break your back. You let me every time. You say ‘you’re mine’ and push me off every bridge you can find. Hold my hand…

18 things I learned being 18.

1. People will promise to never leave you. They will. It’s okay to be sad when they do.2. It is always okay to cry. Always. Find a bathroom, bury your face in your pillow, and let it out. Cry in the shower. Cry in the car. Cry when you need to.3. Boys will flirt with you for a while and then ignore you. Then, they will flirt with you some more. It will be confusing. You have every right to stop putting up with it.4. Pay attention to what people say when they’re angry. When you make up and they tell you they didn’t mean any of it, know that they did. Also know that they wish they didn’t. Forgive them.5. Never pretend to be someone you’re not. If you don’t like tea and classic novels, don’t act like you do to impress people. If you don’t want to wear leather jackets and combat boots, don’t wear them to please someone else.6. People will be mean to you; they will spread lies, call you names, and talk about you behind your back. Eventually you will realize that it is petty and stupid and …
give. with everything that you are and with everything that you have got. we are not permanent beings with bodies that last forever. one day, our hearts will fail. the structure of our bones will someday collapse into themselves. we’ll run out of time. and resource. we don’t know when that’ll happen. when all of this’ll end. so give. now. even if there is only little left of you. especially then.

I think I talk about you like a man prays in a burning church

I think it's kinda terrifying how someone can be one of the most important in your life at a certain point and them a few months later,  you've forgotten their voice or how their hands felt or how they made you feel when you were together and I guess it makes me sad because it's good to forget the bad things but not so good to forget the great ones.


N. The smallest measurable your of human connection,  typically exchanged between strangers-a flirtatious glance, a sympathetic nod, a shared laughter about some odd coincidence-moments that are fleeting and random but still contain powerful emotional nutrients that can alleviate the symptoms of feeling alone.

And if I don't meet you no more in this world, then I'll.. I'll meet you in the next one, and don't be late, don't be late...

"I love you,  but I'm mad at you" is one of the most freeing,  important things you can say in a stable relationship. Does that make sense? To know you have the ability and the right to be mad at someone and know that it doesn't mean things are over, that it doesn't mean things are irreparable.
That it just means "I'm mad,  but God,  I love you. I love you. Now leave me alone."
Bonnie’s .38 revolver, a gift from Clyde. Engraved “To Bonnie. I owe you one. Clyde 2-28-32”.
When they tell you you are made of stars,
do not let them forget what stars are made of. 
Stars are not glitter, not stickers on the ceiling,
not there for decoration.
Stars are chunks of collapsing galaxy. They are 
hundred-thousand mile wide nuclear furnaces
that consume their surroundings into death. 
They are not friendly; they do not exist
to write poems about. Stars 
are not made of metaphors. You
are not made of other people’s words.When they tell you you are made of stars.
look them in the eye and remind them
that so are they, and so is the earth,
and so is the gum on the bottom of your shoes,
and so is the fist you will hit them with
the next time they try to placate you
with their condescending bullshit –When they tell you you are different from other girls,
ask them why you should want to be. 
Do not let them call you dream girl.
Do not let them trap you up on a pedestal,
surrounded by books that cannot hurt them.
Read things that can hurt them. 
Your mind is a forest riche…
You're like this universal much-ness that's ultimately exquisite and I don't know how one can wrap you around them with only hands although I do believe hands are something and they could do more than touch, but oh you?who can touch you whole? I know I can't my hands are too small and you're something, something full of full-ness I actually love it very much.