whats up tomorrow? :)

It’s a secret. Hahaha.

I’m not sure how tomorrow will turn out. I am not ready. Not yet. 

I can feel everything crashing down around me, the weight of it all crumbling into pieces. It’s exhausting, overwhelming and hurting. Yet, it is also a relief. Maybe I can clear away these unwanted pieces and build something new for myself. 

Just myself.

I am forever wounded 
        by my actions.
And these wounds split

      O     P      E      N

    so often. 
No time for

It bleeds
           and bleeds
                    and bleeds. 

A stream of regrets. 

(via fictional-tales)


I could not write it out
so I drew it instead. 
Sharp strokes of grey,
flung against the white.

The drawing became a mess
so I painted it instead.
Splatters of red,
like bloody scratches on the wall.

The painting dripped away
so I moulded it instead.
Great chunks of goo,
slapped into place.

The sculpture cracked to pieces
so I recorded it instead.
It sounded like cackling crows
and feral felines

The sound was pleasing - only at first, 
so I danced it instead.
I collected bruises to each beat,
while knocking against the floor.

The chill of the tiles, 
a sudden revelation. 
Inhale, exhale.

I could live it instead.

It’s this whole thing about feeling helpless, even with the little things. For some reason I’ve failed at one the roles I was born into and I know I will bear the responsibilities, more than anyone else. 

Yet, I am too scared to really find out the truth behind the matter. I am too scared that I will face something overwhelmingly familiar - a place I have barely escaped from. 

I want to be irresponsible just once and run away. I just want to ignore that there is the ongoing problem and pretend that life really is okay. Just this once.

for twenty-year-olds who have never been loved


All of a sudden two decades have passed and you still have not kissed anyone with tongue, or kissed anyone at all for that matter, or had a 3 AM conversation with someone who would rather look into your eyes for ten minutes straight than talk. You have never worn a lover’s sweater or “forgotten” it at home in your bedroom just so you would have an excuse to see them again. You have never even stood face-to-face with someone who makes your hands shake so hard it feels like they’re both having a separate anxiety attack.

This causes you much guilt and self-blame and sadness but above all, an overwhelming curiosity. Are you really that ugly, that unwanted, that uninteresting, that boring, that no one, absolutely no one, has ever looked at you like the only thing on earth?

The answer is no. The better answer is that someone out there, somewhere in the world, is “wondering what it’s like to meet someone like you,” and they have two decades worth of love stored in their veins like a shoot-‘em-up drug, and they’re just about ready to inject it into someone else’s bloodstream. All you have to do is roll up your sleeves and wait for it to happen.

At times you felt so lonely you could stand at the edge of a cliff with nothing beneath you but air and grass and a long, long way down, and you’d still feel emptier than that canyon itself. Maybe you even danced with yourself alone in your room a few times, arms outstretched around a ghost, pretending someone else’s hands were on your waist, someone else’s eyes boring into yours.

Or maybe you fell temporarily in love with strangers on public transportation, fell in love with anybody who so much as accidentally brushed your hand on the way past. For you, falling in love with dozens of people a day was a coping mechanism for not having anyone to love you in return. But people are not eggs and falling in love with a dozen of them does not mean your shell will remain uncracked. One day you’re going to hit the point where you’re so desperate for human contact that you’re going to snap in half and all your love will bleed out like egg yolk.

But someone out there is eating a bowl of Ramen noodles right now, or putting on slippers, or settling into bed. They are doing all the normal things that you’ve done in your own life. They are just like you. They have cellulite and extra fat in all the wrong places and goals and fears and doubts and bad handwriting.

The truth is that they are just like you, and being just like you, they’re looking for a lover too. They’re what you might call a soulmate.

They think they’re all alone in feeling the way they do, but you’re really both two halves of a whole.

And one day you’ll meet them, bump into them on the street, and your two halves will be put together, and you’ll make one.

(via writingsforwinter)

This ache between my ribcage grows ever so slowly and I am not sure it will ever stop. It’s demanding and angry, refusing to leave. Or maybe I’m just holding onto it because it reminds me of all the things I owe you. All the things I need to give back when the time is right. All the things that I didn’t deserve, yet landed right at my feet. 

I can never forget these things, but I guess that’s a good thing.

The amount of times I say sorry cannot make up for all the things I have taken from you, and the outcome that has unravelled before us. I am beyond guilt, it has eaten me up and I am now too ashamed to even see you. 

I’m sorry. I really am so sorry.