In your anger and your despair and your glorious, glorious youth
do not discount the idea of soul mates.
Discount the idea of a singular soulmate.
You still have way too much to learn
to be taught by one person. It’s going to take a lot of time.
It’s going to take a lot of long nights
and willing mouths.
And you might
curse the one who teaches you what it feels like
to cry at the bottom of the shower in the middle of the night
but it is important to learn how to get back up on your own feet
and let the wolf in your throat howl at the moon
once in a while.
Spit out the name of the one who teaches you how to let go.
Keep every love note from the one who shows you
how to want yourself only when he stops calling you.
Use them like blueprints when you forget
what it sounds like to ache.
They’re not all gonna be bad. Some of them burn.
Some of them feel like sinking into the heavy belly of the sun
and sure, sure. You never come away from something like that
without a few burn marks
but I promise it’s worth the warmth.
Remember, every time you think you’ve found “the one”,
there’s probably going to be just one more.
And you’re still gonna love every single damn one of them
like they were the most important sucker on the planet.
In this life, you’re going to love like pulling teeth,
(one after another)
and that’s okay.
I promise it’s all right.
"RE: I Thought I Found ‘The One’", Trista Mateer (via tristamateer
All these boys want to fuck me, then forget me. They like having me there when they feel like it. Like the thought of me moaning their names and that’s it. They invite me over, say, make yourself at home. So I climb onto their fire escapes and shake.
All these boys like to text me late at night, when they’re bored. “Just thinking about you,” they say. And that’s it. Or they type, “I read your poetry. You’re going somewhere.” “What did you read?” I reply nervously. When they get back to me it’s one, two, three weeks later. It’s, “I don’t remember. Some stuff.” And that’s it.
I am wondering what they’d write if they wrote about me. “She was nice. Sort of pretty too. But mechanical. Preplanned. I don’t think I knew her much at all.”
Or worse, “We talked a few times. I liked the way her mouth looked. Wanted to feel it on me, you know? Thought about us fucking a few times…Yeah, I’d say I knew her pretty well.”
All these boys wipe their drool on me like I am just the flesh. Just a place to die in, for the night. Just a sweet thing to reflect on when they’re feeling heavy. Just an idea that they never got and still don’t want. And that’s it. That’s it.
Love breaks my
bones and I
The worst part about anything that’s self destructive is that it’s so intimate. You become so close with your addictions and illnesses that leaving them behind is like killing the part of yourself that taught you how to survive.
I was raised among books, making invisible friends in pages that seemed cast from dust and whose smell I carry on my hands to this day.
Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind
have a selfie of me with my vr cute dog, you deserve it
have a nice day!
i wish i had a magical flowing tongue that always knows exactly what to say at the right time
i’v missed your vulnerable side
i wish i could help you more
i hope i don’t come across as uncaring or unfeeling because i feel so much but i’m never sure what to tell you
just let me hug you
im sorry im not a better friend