it’s funny because your stomach still drops when he doesn’t text back. like by now shouldn’t it be ready for the trainwreck that happens in all four chambers of your battered sorry heart like shouldn’t you be ready for the crushing self-doubt like come on now why act so wounded it’s your fault that you got your silly little hopes up
(via forlatenight-thoughts)
you were young and you said the world was bitter and they said they couldn’t taste it so you must be imagining it and you were young so you didn’t know better and you were young so you slept with the covers pulled up so you wouldn’t cry too loudly and you were young so when you told them the nightmares kept you up they said that was part of being a person
you were young so when you said you weren’t eating anymore and all your love was seeping through the floor and the ash of your happiness was settling around you they said well you’re young we all get sad sometimes and because you were young they considered the matter settled and would get angry if you brought it up again and would tell you that your attitude was actually the problem and would say - oh come on not this again - which meant that because you were young your words were all weightless and untethered
because you were young you would have nowhere else to go towards except the bright light of your own horrible exposure all knives and wasteland until the brimstone of your selfdirected rage caught everything on fire and you were young so they looked at the mess of your falling star and said you were acting like a monster and chided you for all your faults and begged you to please take more responsibility for how badly you were hurting because you were young so you had to have done this to yourself how else would it have happened how could someone who is young ever be hurt in a real way how could someone who has a roof over their head and food in their bodies ever feel gutted like a fish
and you were young and you understood them because they were suddenly speaking a very clear language and you were young and you realized -
if i survive this, it has to be by my own hand and by my own creation.
“When doctors stick their fists into the chest cavities of human beings, they leave something behind, some sadness that glues itself to the insides of the operated ribs. It is as if your heart knows it has been exposed to the sky and it is mourning the loss of light. It grows dark when they break you open. For some reason, you know the call is coming before it does. He says it’s over between you and him and you thought you were ready for it but instead you find yourself shaking and sobbing with the same nauseous out-of-control feeling as when you were seven and spun over your handlebars and hit your head against the concrete. His words are a high-speed collision without a helmet. This is what it feels like when you put the phone down: it feels as if you are lying with cold feet on the crinkled paper of a hospital table and there is an ongoing surgery occurring without anesthesia. Every doctor has his face. You picture the small moments that are being carefully plucked from your sternum - no more quiet moments while you sort clean clothing, no more ice cream trips at two in the morning, no more waking up before him to see the sun shift through his eyelashes, no more summer days with bare legs tangled on beaches, no more kissing him, no more curling up near him, no more him. And you hate that you want it all back, that you would take everything you have and trade it for another chance to feel him beside you. You are not someone’s princess and you never were. Your mother did not raise you with a wolf in your chest so you could howl over losing a man. But here you are, open-heart operation in progress while he cleanly snips out his connection to you. That’s it. No more future. He leaves you there, bones bent back to make room for the hole he has punched in you. You are the one in charge of your recovery, but you have shaky hands and there aren’t enough band-aids for a hurt like this. Every time you make a peanutbutter sandwich or listen to your favorite music or stare up at the ceiling, you remember him and the stitches come undone again. And your friends grow weary of hearing your story and hearing how you called him drunk and hearing how you hate him and hearing how you love him in an almost impossibly unending way and hearing how you’ll never be the same and hearing how you’re feeling better really and hearing how you’re back in the same sad space and your mouth grows wearing of saying his name like each letter was a prison wall and one day you don’t speak of him at all. You carry the scar but you no longer flinch when the sharpness of this world brushes against your chest. You are wolf, and you might be wounded, but one day you will get over it. You are still waiting for when that moment hits.”— Soft dies the light (part two of five) /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
(via inkskinned)
you keep your mind and your words in a corset and you say that you’re “just quiet” but aren’t you always spilling-over actually. isn’t it just so loud inside of you, like seven thousand angry bees. isn’t it just that you were taught, long ago - little one, isn’t it - if you actually act yourself, you’re simply “too much to handle”.
you cannot be loved the way that you were made. you need to be trimmed down into neat particulates. your shadow-self is kind and dainty. be less, dear. you send too many texts and talk too much and love too loudly. you take up so much space like this. uncontained and ugly. go elsewhere. nobody likes it when you roll around in this body.
strawberry blonde, mitski. / tallahasseemp3, tumblr. / ishana, gor3fairy on insta. / fleabag, by phoebe waller-bridge. / love freely, E.C. / richard silken. / girl, SYML. / fleabag, phoebe waller-bridge.
(via inkskinned)
