Still Here
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““I didn’t mean to and I had drank a bit. I swear it’s the distance. You- you were so far away,” He stumbled desperately, “what was I supposed to-,” “Love me,” she whispered, the tears running down her cheeks, “All you had to do was love me.””
— tara love / was that too much to ask for?
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Has it happened yet?
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(via bottled-up-emotionss)
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“I realized heartbreak wasn’t poetic when my sister was driving her car 90mph, her hands clenching the steering wheel and her mumbling “I can’t believe I was so stupid.” because no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t turn her broken heart into anything more than a mosaic. because when this boy had to talk in front of the class, his eyes watered when he mentioned her name and he shrugged his shoulders and said “sometimes things just don’t work out.” and he still loved her. because when it happened to me I pictured me going 90mph on the highway, and mumbling about how I still loved him but instead I threw something at the wall and I wrote about it. I wrote about how much it hurt and tried to make my ribs cracking with all the weight of my heavy heart sound poetic but it’s not. nothing is beautiful or poetic about the way your heart feels when someone you loved leaves, or doesn’t stay, or says “I’m sorry, it just has to be this way.” and there’s nothing poetic about driving so fast you’re convinced you’re gonna crash into the bridge, but you don’t. and it’s accidentally taking a breath under water even though you know it’ll get in your lungs but you just couldn’t come up for air and it’s not beautiful, it just makes your lungs fucking burn. heartbreak is going to open your mouth and nothing comes out but a few broken pieces of your heart and you swallow it back down in hopes of no one noticing your heart coming up from the ocean waves forming inside your stomach and with just one more look from him, you know you’ll turn into a hurricane and it’s dangerous. it’s not beautiful. it turns people into natural disasters that destruct anything in their paths. it makes hearts so broken you can barely see the flame that sparked it up in the first place, because the ocean inside of them washed it away, and you can’t love him anymore when he’s a flame and you’re the ocean.”
— I know heartbreak isn’t poetic but writing sure does take away some of the pain from it. // ig writingmyself
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“Deleting and blocking people is a part of self care, practice it.”
Lunas-worlds-blog
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I dreamt of you and woke up bleeding from old wounds I thought were healed.
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i was built like a mud pit. always spilling over about things. always talking too loud or loving too much or trying too hard or eating bigger than a fist or getting all excited when nobody wanted to hear about the subject.
how easy to halve a person, i guess. i stood and saw my body as cake. i was only delicate if balanced, pristine. felt like i was always flooding; always crying at weird times and laughing when anybody else would scream.
i just wanted to love. in sum and in total i just wanted to love what i did and who i was and what i wrote and what i read and what i watched and the world at large. god, did i want to love the world. i wanted to show people every snowflake and tell them about the secret layers of The Little Mermaid and show them silly dances and be okay.
i look at my body and her ruined wedding of a figure and how she is now a half of a half of a half; all too-much shoved into a dark space that molds over and rots in me. i’m wrong when i exist and therefore try to be nonexistent. to phase effortlessly in and out of other’s lives like a wisp, to come and go before they know i’m annoying.
one of my friends laughs. “you’re so extra,” he says.
i take another piece of myself off. eat it, and don’t throw up.
i just wanted to love.
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“I could already see it in the quick flash before she turned away onto the empty sidewalk. She always looked like she had learned how to handle herself a long time ago, but in the way children are forced to grow up too fast. She had always seemed so unwilling to show weakness, but I could see the tears that were waiting to fall and the kind of sadness that was so apparent despite her attempts to hide it and the kind of exhaustion that tells me that maybe she had just given up. After so long, I still wish I had asked her, maybe for a name or just how she felt. Some days, I remember the girl who ran out and I hope she knew that I wanted her safe, that I cared.”
— tara love / and i don’t know her and i don’t see her but i hope she’s okay
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“I’m still trying to forgive myself for all the things I failed to become. I’m still trying to make peace with all the broken pieces of my past.”
— r.h Sin (whiskey words & a shovel)
(via cryybabyy-x)
