I broke the walls that I once built for myself,
I was standing in open even though I knew that now the world got ways to hurt me.
And I was right, you hurted me.
You hurted me till I felt the pain no more.
It kind of scares me, not the pain.
But, the fact that no matter what happens and how many times you hurt me.
I'd still break the walls.
For you, Again and again.
( Do not repost)
The other day i posted something regarding how affectionate i think it is to cook for someone you are in love with! and although it was truly dedicated to him in specific, he didn't react to it instantly but after a few days he asked me to cook something for him. How can someone be so adorable i am in love !!!
the way i would just start smoking for the sole reason of sharing the gracefully intimidating aesthetic of Zelda Spellman
When it’s summer and you realise he’s covered in tattoos that were hidden under their winter/formal attire>>>>>>>>>>
drop everything now and look what i've done
— ROOTS, BNK
The garden this morning :)
Time wrung it’s careful hands of me, and I felt every drop of myself bleed from its finger tips,
slide under its nails and hang there before falling into a place where time never existed in the begin-with
I’m 18 now—
and my small town sounds like radio static, feels like sticky days in April driving through a college town and being mad at your father. Looks like life on film,
posted on that one girl's instagram page who graduated a year ahead of you.
I’m graduated and off to a different town but the word “seventeen” still sounds like poetry in my brain, still waits to fall off my fingertips like the last drop of water once the faucet turns off, still sounds like unsung song lyrics. Feels like choking up on stage, like how it feels to confuse butterflies and anxiety.
Still feels heavy.
Like laughing, like screaming, like the last cinematic tear on your face once you’ve finished crying.
And maybe that’s why it feels right to me.
I like the way it ties weights to its ankles and tries to drown itself in my throat, makes it hard for me to breath, how I often confuse pain for something pretty, always turn these bleeding wounds into pen ink,
always the poet.
How my pain and my happiness always feel the same bc they’ve both tied themselves to my rib cage in protest.
Of what, I’m not sure— and maybe this is what it feels like to say goodbye to childhood.
like the taste of something that has no business being in my mouth.
Like pennies, metallic like blood on my tongue, or my fingertips.
like spitting out all my words so I don’t choke on them, spitting out my childhood so I don’t choke on it.
How pretty it looks spat onto concrete, or written down on white pages, or being rinsed down the bathtub drain.
35 millimeter film.
Frame by frame.
An empty theatre.
My memories played back like a movie I don’t quite remember watching because nobody else was there and I could only hear the sound of silence sat in the seats next to me, the lack of cheers once it was over when the screen went blank and the popcorn was cold.
Time wrung it’s careful hands of me.
But not before I bloodied it’s knuckles.
People will tell you that nostalgia is soft,
like velvet between ur fingers.
Nobody tells you about time, about it’s violence.
About how hard it is to scrub blood out of velvet.
- seventeen//a piece about time
original piece written by Aijalon Amelié
tryna give butterflies in her stomach <33
I forgive the world because it has you.
“I saw my childhood sunsetting before my eyes, going out as softly and serene as the late summer afternoon it left me on. There’s a spirit that lives through us during every chapter of our lives. This one, I believe, licked all her wounds and laid down to rest in the endless fields of my elementary school. Leaving me beside her with white clover and bluegrass sprinkled on my knees, she’s given me a love I will carry within me forever.”
— B.N Pressman, Stories of My Childhood
She was the poem he wanted to keep writing and he was the music she wanted to keep listening to.
At the end they both found their muse in each other.
We are writers my love,
We don't cry, we bleed on papers.
why is Summer not summering the way it should Summer???
This Is How You Lose the Time War, Amal El-Mohtar and Max Gladstone