The only way to talk to me now is to call and
you’re not gonna call so
we’re not gonna talk. it’s that simple
in the way that
it’s not simple. in the way that
i miss you,
already.

— Latching onto this idea like I’ll drown when I let go– lily rain (via wont-time-love-us)

wont-time-love-us:

im so good with boys and by so good I mean I either come off as desperate or a bitch

You said you don’t like mean poems so I’m sorry in advance
for the things I’ll probably say the next time you decide this isn’t worth it to you
i almost feel like it’s my fault for continuously reaching out like
some kind of broken wind up doll that won’t stop moving.
my cousin saw your name on my phone and she said “you’re talking to him again?”
making it sound like maybe this was the worst sin God had in mind when he wrote the bible.
i probably have an additive personality because the feeling I get in my stomach when I see your name on my screen isn’t unlike the feeling I get when there’s a shot of vodka in my hands.
a little tipsy and
already regretting what’s going to happen next.

— i guess the problem is I don’t really regret anything– lily rain (via wont-time-love-us)

There was a knot in my chest when you said you thought it was best if we stopped seeing each other, and this know gradually made its way into my stomach as I couldn’t find the urge to tell you what I wanted, and when I did, it wasn’t what you wanted.
There sat these knows in some of the most vital organs in me, a knot in my throat, and another in my heart. Months and months passed; soon came Summer and then Winter, and here we are once again in Autumn.
731 days ago these knots were tighter than ever. This September, they have loosen - no tension, no edges just simple strands of memories by two lovers, who are now part of a chapter that’s already been read.

—

Ming D. Liu, Stories I’ll tell one day #138

(via

)

I will get drunk and kiss strangers and I will dance all night with my friends
I will cry for you on the kitchen floor but I won’t ask you to come back

— (via perfectblacksoul)

cwote:
“ you deserve the world
”

I’ll tell you how perfection fit into a size 0. I’ll tell you how we slaved after a validation that never came. Those nights where we finished studying by 8 p.m. to get enough sleep so we would actually remember those things we tried to drill into our heads. The mornings of exams when we mashed avocados and ate them on our toast because we thought the omegas would help our brains focus. The squats and lunges to fill out our jeans but make sure our legs never touched unless we were crossing them. Straightening our natural curls to the point of nearly irreversible damage. Pretty is happy pretty is happy pretty is happy is miserable. A- tears and that feeling of never being satisfied with ourselves. What was pride. What was pride when nothing we ever did was good enough. Good enough fast enough long enough skinny enough smart enough never enough. Swallowing two little tablets at 6 o'clock to control the anxiety and washing down the happy pill at bedtime with sugar-free caffeine-free carbonated lemonade. Waking up at 4 a.m on days with therapist appointments to run on the treadmill before school. Cup after cup of coffee to wash away the fatigue trying to stop us from being better. Always wanting to be better but not knowing how. Sick and tired. So sick and tired but still reading textbooks and taking notes mindlessly on things we will never remember. Hand cramps and PowerPoint presentations. Forgetting our glasses at home being a disaster because we couldn’t see the whiteboard without them. Instagram begging us to keep up, Twitter wits while on the verge of emotional breakdowns because that’s relatable. Hashtag cries for help. Having finally stopped intentionally skipping meals just to forget to eat because of stress. Strength-training sessions with tears in our eyes. When we cried in the bathroom at school over our dead relatives we didn’t have time to grieve. Taking care of surface-level acquaintances trying too hard to make minor things deep. 1st-world problems written all over our generation amongst ten thousand other labels while we sit on the bathroom floor with razor blades. Nothing deep enough to satisfy. Never satisfied. Self-loathing but doing everything to ensure everyone else loves us. Afraid to wear a bikini or raise our hands in class but not scared to die. Trembling fingers and shaky nerves. Too insecure to be infatuated but infatuated nonetheless and it broke our hearts. Soft spots for rough things. Battle scars at 16. We were young and we had atomic numbers of elements memorized but we didn’t know how to love ourselves. Dressing room meltdowns and so much party anxiety that we never made it to the party. Sore ankles and blisters from walking in heels for so long and pretending it didn’t hurt. Calorie-count ourselves to sleep as the idea of a nonexistent perfection keeps us awake. The scars were not worth the people who never loved us. Killing ourselves to be something else. Pretty is not happy.

— © Kayla Kathawa (via ninakathawa)

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