whenever i’m upset, people constantly remind me how beautiful i am. as if i somehow forgot that i am beautiful. they also remind me that i’m funny, and intelligent, and nice, but those are afterthoughts that follow “you are so beautiful.” yes, i am. but there is so much more to me than that. and when i’m having an anxiety attack and in hysterics and everyone is threatening to put me into an asylum, i don’t need to be reminded that i’m beautiful. i need to be reminded how to breathe, and that one step forward and two steps back will eventually make progress even though the math doesn’t add up. i need to know that i will be okay, one day, not now, but one day. i need to know that even though i’m not okay at this moment, thatis okay. i need to know that i am still loved by my family and friends even though i am broken. i need to know that it’s okay for me to be broken and i’m allowed to feel my emotions. i need everyone to know that shutting up and smiling isn’t something i can do at this moment, and when people look at me and say “you’re acting crazy, you may not be okay on the inside but you have got to get it together on the outside.” i need them to know that their idea of what is appropriate is not sufficient enough to hold back the pain i’m feeling and that smiling and pretending to be fine will not be okay, regardless of what our culture tries to tell us to do. i need everyone to know that emotions are something that i am going to embrace, and if that means i’m having an anxiety attack at my best friend’s house after my world falls apart and i walk out on my job and i don’t want to be awake anymore, then that is alright. for fuck’s sake, stop telling me i’m beautiful.
how nicely or how badly he
treated you and no matter
how long or how little you
had him you will miss
him and you will want him
to be the one that comforts
you and you will want to know
why he did this to you and you
will scream at the world and be
angry even at the flowers that
grow from the soil of the earth
and you will collapse on the floor
like a leaf falling from its tree and
you will feel lost like a tourist in a
foreign city and you will feel so
numb that you will have to check
if your heart is even beating and
I am not going to sugarcoat it for
you and I am not going to tell you
that he will come back and lift you
out of your grave because the truth
is you will have to stitch your body
back together and you will have
to be the one that cleans the
waterfall of tears that have
splashed your cheeks and no
matter how much you wish
for him to come back you will
have to learn that most stars
are already dead in light-years
and you have to be the one
that fixes your own gears of
your contraption because
you are the only one that can
swim when you are drowning
in your own blood. You will miss him. (via dollpoetry)
— Denis Johnson
does this even make sense or
dear straight people,
aye yo tumblr, we need to talk about how this slam poem will fucking change your life
Physically, yes I can live without you. I can eat, breathe, and sleep easily without you.
But if I’m not sharing half of a medium pizza with you, then I don’t want to eat.
And if I can’t feel your body move up and down as you breathe, I see no purpose in breathing.
And if I’m not waking up chest deep wrapped in your arms, then I don’t want to sleep.i’ve never wanted someone this badly (via suchvodka)
Stop setting yourself
on fire for someone who
stays to watch you burn.Haiku on Perspective | connotativewords | jl (via 09994)
I hope one day
somebody loves you
that they see violets
in the bags under your eyes,
sunsets in the downward arch
of your lips,
that they recognize you
as something green,
something fresh and still growing,
even if sometimes
you are growing sideways,
that they do not waste their time
trying to fix you.
but I need you to know that i’m finally happy.
I don’t want to hear about how you’ve been.
I don’t want to hear that you miss me.
I don’t care that you can’t sleep,
when you stay up thinking about the past.
Don’t ask me if i still care about what we had.
Don’t tell me that i’m the only one who never lets you down.
I know that.
I used to be proud of that.
But I let all those feelings go.
Now I don’t miss you like I used to.
Now i’m sure you never really felt the same way back.
Now I know that I just settled,
because I thought you were the one.
So stop telling me that you’ve missed me.
Stop asking me not to throw everything away.
I used to pray to hear you say,
“Take me back.”
But i’m done being used.
I’m not your second choice.
It’s finally over now.
Stop asking me not to throw everything away.
You did that a long time ago. I don’t miss you like I used to (via eatingwhitebabies)
In all the aeons we have lost nothing, we have gained nothing - not a speck, not a grain, not a breath. The universe is simply a sealed, twisting kaleidoscope that has reordered itself a trillion trillion trillion times over.
Each baby, then, is a unique collision - a cocktail, a remix - of all that has come before: made from molecules of Napoleon and stardust and comets and whale tooth; colloidal mercury and Cleopatra’s breath: and with the same darkness that is between the stars between, and inside, our own atoms.
When you know this, you suddenly see the crowded top deck of the bus, in the rain, as a miracle: this collection of people is by way of a starburst constellation. Families are bright, irregular-shaped nebulae. Finding a person you love is like galaxies colliding. We are all peculiar, unrepeatable, perambulating micro-universes - we have never been before and we will never be again. Oh God, the sheer exuberant, unlikely fact of our existences. The honour of being alive. They will never be able to make you again. Don’t you dare waste a second of it thinking something better will happen when it ends. Don’t you dare. Caitlin Moran (via scatteredandshining)
I have read countless stories
About beautiful girls
With mental illnesses
And they cry and they are beautiful,
and yet they still laugh sometimes,
and their world is made
to look so glamorous
It’s so romantic,
to see a beautiful girl,
shattered at the wrists,
and she hates herself,
but not really.
Because when I became depressed,
It was not beautiful,
And I especially wasn’t either.
When I became depressed,
I wore the same sweatshirt to school,
three weeks in a row.
I convinced myself,
that I could not get out of bed,
or my feet would shatter upon hitting the floor,
I felt that I couldn’t breathe.
My friends thought that my illness was special,
that it made me mysterious,
and that I was something beautiful and broken,
My dad told me,
It’s all in your head.
Of course it is,
I don’t want it there,
Get it out of there.
And the stigma was the worst,
I felt that I could tell nobody.
Of all the terrible thoughts that plagued my mind,
Because I was taught that I would get labeled,
And that I’m a psycho,
And to keep it to myself that I take pills to be happy,
I was taught that people in the psych ward are loony,
and that they can’t think for themselves,
that they go in the room with padded walls,
and they never come out.
I need more representation,
of the so called ‘psychos’
because we are stronger than you think we are.
They think they know us,
They think they can put us in a dark corner,
and forget that we plague the human race.
But we are all around,
One in four people is mentally ill.
We are your brothers and sisters,
And we are not crazy.A poem I wrote for a project on mental illness for class (via dontfeedthefangirls)