Broken, I said

I was sewing letters on the soft, white feathers I held tenderly in my hand. A man visited me and asked me, "Angel, what has happened to your wings?" This is my answer. I can only be fixed by my words and stories. One day I will fly again. may have come to give love

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

[2002hondacivicwithac]

[5000letters]

I tell myself,  that you are only a moment. How in this universe full of moments,  we’re just two stars that found the same orbit. I tell myself that  it doesn’t matter. if we fall out of love, fall out of orbit, stop chasing our heels,  stop touching each other, like sunflowers  are growing from  our skins. I tell myself that you are not the sun and I am not the greedy Earth. A mantra or a prayer, I tell myself, that it doesn’t matter if someday,  I cannot hold  the soft mass of you in my arms.  That I will  love you properly here and now.  What I mean is,  if we are a moment,  I want us to track through forever with our dirty shoes, and our suitcases. If we are a moment, let it be  now and now and now.

Azra.T “Chasing Tails”  (via 5000letters)

[angelicxi]

Aries — there was a war in your childhood home, and you can still remember the fires, how the blood was pretty and sick on the bathroom’s pristine tiles, your mother’s still warm body limp in the tub. breathe in through the mouth: in, out, in. you are not guilty. her life is not on your hands. Taurus — it is okay to love things more than you love people; practical, even. people have left you, people will leave you – things, though, ah! things will not abandon you. buy yourself something nice. it is the least bad out of all your choices. Gemini — you die every night and are reborn at dawn; you are a walking graveyard, an army of yesterdays’ ghosts, and you no longer remember who you were at the beginning. do not weep for the stranger that once inhabited your bones. Cancer — you are in love with the idea of love more than you are in love with your lovers; that is why all your relationships are fleeting, why you are always falling apart. all the same, smile when he proposes. pretend you do not know how this is going to end. Leo — oh, you poor, poor thing. all you have ever wanted was love’s sunlight, but all you ever got were the thunderstorms, the clouds above your head heavy with sorrow, and so you chose to drown out the rain between the thighs of a lover. do not regret it, for they were good nights. Virgo — you cradled your heart all your life with such care, and when the day came for you to hand it to another, it shattered like glass in their grip. they did not mean to hurt you, you know. they just wanted to hold on, afraid it will slip through their fingers like sand. Libra — you are the king of bad choices, from lovers to the fights you pick when you are far from sober; you lost your sanity along the line between what is right and what is not, and you started hungering. i fear the day your hunger will be quenched – only justice will sate you, and that calls for everyone’s dying. Scorpio — you are the one everyone fears: the monster in the closet, the witch at the stake – the devil, falling. all of this is because they cannot understand you. they fear you like they fear death; instinctively. do not mind them, for death is a kind god: the sweetest sleep, the darkness from which life is born. Sagittarius — some days, you think the sea is but a giant mirror, the vanity of coquettish stars and lazy clouds in passing. some days, you think it is the fury of our earth mother, her tears and her sorrow saltwater in the breeze. on all of them, you want to sail its’ lengths; you want to get lost out on the abyss, feel small beneath the sky. Capricorn — you learned early on the art of silent war – the war carried by words, sharper than any other blade. at the same time, you have learned how little you mattered to the world, and so you cast yourself in armor. i just wish you would learn to love yourself, if only a little. your own words have been cutting you all along. Aquarius — there is a sickness in you called longing: you’re wanton, thirsty, hungry, wanting – what, exactly, well, that is part two, and none of us is really sure. you’re standing here, hands reaching for; come inside. i will pour us both some wine, and we can pass the waiting time together. one day, you will know what you are lusting after. Pisces — all you have ever loved seems to be taken from you, until your house is left an empty, cold thing, and your soul has been turned into a ruin. do not despair; get up from the floor, dust your clothes. there are seeds on the upper shelves in the shed. it is a time as good as any to start keeping a garden.

poetry for the signs: the “it is okay” edition, L. Schreiber (via angelicxi)

[tastefullyoffensive]

[sanaseannalang-deactivated20150]

Whoa! Added to vocabulary. 

Internesting (adj) used to describe interesting fact you find in the internet.

[jendrnc]

omfg this is hilarious

[devincastro]

[quivering-angels-deactivated201]

esilanaaurora:

Perfect

[edwardspoonhands]

I’m not crying you’re crying

[mayahan]

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

I am near bursting, a few seconds away from exploding. Graze your hand on my skin and think softness, think marble, think statues so untouchable in their frozen beauty, immortalized in cavernous museums. See me, and think hardness, rock, stoic expressions and that doubtful cast in her eyes, oh. Did you think me unfeeling, uninteresting, bland, and in need of more sculpting, more details; sharper cheekbones, a curvier body, hair so wavy it rivals the dance of the ocean? Did you think you can mold me to your liking? Did you think you can leave me when I remained flawed?

I am near bursting. I am quiet amidst the storms that I brew ( swirl the spoon in my coffee until the milk becomes its own typhoon) but I am loud where I need it most.

I am near bursting. Witness the galaxy, the stars explode and escape through the cracks in my exterior. Crash into me and I'll let you taste outer space. Touch me, and feel the universe open up to your skin.

I am near bursting. Forget it all. My greatness has come. I'll show you the world that I've made.

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

Notes written when everything got a little too much (5/22/15)

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

There are difficult days, and there are days the world is beautiful—when the light that streams through the window in my room makes the darkness have a hint of hope, when it seems like with your friends and the rumbles of laughter, you are where you are supposed to be and are surrounded by all the people you need. But then there are days I can hardly live, hardly breathe, when my thoughts grab hold of me and keep me captive and the pain has its hands around my neck again, ridding me from taking what I need to live. The truth is acceptance is not a one time thing. I am a new person everyday, reborn to make the right choices every single time and to accept reality as it is. And this is never easy, when your whole life has been a long series of romanticizing the pains of life, when I am both weak and strong at the same time (in different areas, different times), when I am so stuck in the hope that so easily lodges in my heart even when all signs point otherwise. The truth is I’m a hopeless romantic, and it’s almost an uncontested idea that that means I’m a fool. A naive, unrealistic fool. But the point here is that I believe so completely in love, and the beauty of this relies on how the harsh reality of the world hasn’t yet touched the wholeness of it. To me, falling out of love is the most difficult concept to grasp. To me, nothing really leaves; everyone always comes back in one way or another. Even her, even you. (Oh, but I believe in lies, too. I weave words to make lies seem perfect. Now, take this and love it. Live in the naivete of hiding behind a lie.) The truth is that, no matter how many times I persuade myself to let go (it rings, it whispers, then it screams every second of everyday. Let go, let go, let go) and how many times I build higher walls (higher, higher everyday; bigger, bigger everyday. Let me rival the great wall of China; this kingdom needs greatness), the waves of sleep wash away all caution, and there you are with me again. The truth is that I still get these dreams, where sometimes the only act of salvation is that gaze, your eyes on mine—the sweet surrender. Maybe because this is the personification of love to me; maybe this is what I think of when I try to persuade myself that the past was real, that we loved, even if it only was for a moment. In these dreams, we’d talk, and somehow I can’t remember what happened at all, only that I heard your voice, and it was all that mattered (your voice is my lullaby; let me live in this dream forever. Your voice is a god, and I’d push away being agnostic and sing prayers, hold rosaries in my hand until all I am is your religion. Answer me; I know I have sinned. Give me eternal damnation if it means I get to have you.) The truth is I’m starting to forget you. There’s peace in this act. All the cracks where you once were have been filled once again by me. But the backlash that comes with this healing leaves me breathless because you always come back with a vengeance. Suddenly, I remember holding your hand in that last month, and you cringing because it hurt, and I know I was thinking it then that you were gone, my God, I knew you were gone but maybe if I hold on tight enough, you won’t go away. Those days, it felt like even the wind can take you away from me. I remember being in that safe cocoon, in between white sheets, just looking, just basking in the presence of the other, not really touching, only reveling in the beauty of the moment. And I remember laughing too hard with you, lying my head on your shoulder in public transportation, your hand in the small of my back as you walked on the dangerous side of the road (“It’s the rise of feminism, don’t you think I can fend for myself?” I asked. “Reverse gender roles.” You shrugged), and perhaps what hurts the most is when I remember what it felt like to have you by my side, to wrap my arms around you, to know that you wanted me there, that you’d fight anyone who’d dare take me. But I’m thinking too highly of you. That’s the thing about me: I love the little moments. I see the whole picture and throw away the pieces that I didn’t love (you, never planning our dates; you leaving me behind for anything; the way you put everyone first except me; the way you were embarrassed of me ever since you joined; the way you told me we had to act like friends in front of everybody in the office and how you’d never even call, rarely reply when you were in that little room; the way I cried every single night on December because I said I can’t feel it, I don’t think you love me, and how you only stayed silent, saying, “I don’t know what to say.”; the time your whole family hated me because I pulled you aside when we saw them, and how you never even tried to tell them that the only reason the introduction wasn’t done was only because you didn’t answer me when I told you if you wanted me to meet them) and look instead at the happy ones, yet only to justify the feeling that I may miss you after everything. The truth is I told you I was scared. It was dark, and I was feeling everything at the same time, and you were in front of me, loving me. “I’m scared. I’m so scared you’d leave me like my mother did,” I said. “Promise me you won’t leave like her. Promise me you’d at least explain, that we’d still talk, that we’d never act like we didn’t even have a great connection.” You laughed, held my hands in both of yours. “Impossible. I don’t think I’ll ever leave you. You’d have to do that first because I can’t.” “It’s okay. This is worth it.” The truth is I don’t know how to unlove a person. Falling out of love is a horrible concept. I never want to believe in it. The truth is I love myself more now but there’s still a part of me that loves you. The truth is I saw for myself how you look for love everywhere, in models that live in condominium units, in officemates who leave (Oh. Shouldn’t you know better?), in girls found at drinking pubs. You are so desperate to find somebody new, and I can’t quite understand that yet when you still have so many things to work out within yourself. (I know. The truth is I’m not anyone to think this. We’re different people, and we no longer have a spot in each other’s lives.) The truth is I’m learning. I still have a long way to go but I’m learning. (And the truth is you never really forget; you only accept.)

the secret lies in accepting// ateenagerwithablog

[bossyplanets]

poets born under each sign

aries: robert frost

The best way out is always through.

taurus: william shakespeare

My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

gemini: walt whitman

Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

cancer: pablo neruda

But wait for me, keep for me your sweetness. I will give you too a rose. 

leo: charles bukowski

attend the boxing matches, go to the racetrack, live on luck and skill, get alone, get alone often, and if you can’t sleep alone be careful of the words you speak in your sleep; and ask for no mercy no miracles;

virgo: mary oliver

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

libra: e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it(anywhere i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done by only me is your doing,my darling)

scorpio: sylvia plath

I wait and ache. I think I am healing.

sagittarius: emily dickinson

I dwell in possibility.

capricorn: edgar allen poe

Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, “On! on!“—but o’er the Past

aquarius: langston hughes

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.

pisces: jack kerouac

This transcendental Brilliance Is the better part (of Nothingness I sing)

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

This is how you know pt 2

Be wary of the men Who do not beg of your poetry, Who do not understand that you Are a living metaphor, and that all You know is to be, And to be other To mean something.

He has never asked for my beauty, For the words that drip from My pores. He held me together in his arms, And didn’t see that I was a book Made whole. I was pouring ink With every touch, staining His hands black with all of me, Trying to put to words how His skin made hummingbirds Of my soul, how his mind Made budding of flowers In the morning, how he was The salt of the ocean: everywhere, Everywhere I go in the water, I know Only to taste the salt of you in My tongue; I, the mermaid That revels in her hometown, For you are my atlantis, hidden Somewhere in the metropolis.

But you’re not here, not anymore. The hummingbirds leave my soul To find homes whose hearts beat Like theirs, And I think my garden no longer blooms Because I am closed off, too dark. I am broken like the tequila bottles We drank in my room, kicked to The ground in drunk abandon. I look to you, and see the altar That bore witness to you, to us, to them. Cry to the emptiness of that religion, Scream at the times it only Watched the degradation, the Long calls. You walked away from the mess of me, Glass sparkling like diamonds clinging To your black shirt. Walk away Without looking back (there Are pieces of me that I’ll never get back. I’ll never Find you again, not you The one who I loved, The one who loved me back.)

I am haunted by the ghost of you. You a wound that opens again and again. I am made sick by the reality Of what we are and what we were. There’s infection in my veins; it runs In my bloodstream but nobody Sees it foreign, when I say that It’s you. “He wants out. He’s poison. I think he wants to kill me” No chemotherapy, no juice cleanse (Alcohol more like alcohol) Can save me from your grasp. I am shaking in mornings when I wake Because the nights are long, and I keep waiting for a call that’ll Never come. I am sick I am sick because You aren’t here with me; and I think I’m experiencing withdrawals (Be my drug. I’ll be your loyal Addict.)

Listen to me: I will love you forever. Here, listen closely: I am lying.

I am a writer, a living metaphor. I am no longer human, and Touched by you. I am wings spread out, eagle in The blue sky. I am strength; I am gone. I am the words I will Live without you.

I am the storm you couldn’t conquer; A name you’ll remember forever For the changed town. I am not remnants of who we were; I am living, I am me. And you Are only a poem that I wrote.

Listen to me: I did not lose anything when you left. Don’t flatter yourself. You were not a loss.

This is how you know: I accept you as you are. Go live. Go love. Go find someone who’d love You the way that I did. I’ll wait.

This is how I know: I go live. I go love. I go find someone who’d love Me more than you did. I have the world.

I hope when you touch her, You see the blacks in your hands. When you dip your tongue In other girls, I hope you taste the ink of My mouth. I am here but you are gone.

This is how I know.

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

This is how you know pt 1

This is how it starts: In the calendar the fourteenth is Circled red, glaring, screaming To be remembered. Three days to go. He calls you after a three-day silence, And tells you to stop counting. There: eleven months, 28 days. The fourteenth is still circled red, And you do not know how the dead Celebrate their anniversaries but Three days later, you mourn For the life you once had because We are the ghosts of lovers who Once loved deeply but you are reincarnated Into a life that has never Heard of my name. A part of you still lives within me. It calls out to you When you're gone, and it Wonders where your goodbyes are At 3 in the morning; My soul sings to your body, screaming Orchestra to your absence. I am All sharp violins and slow piano Tunes without you. Touch me Again, and the melody changes. Where are you? Where is your love? The rotting starts inside. I am Sunflowers without sun; I am Gone without my beacon-- where Will I go? My heart knows only to love; I know Only to love you. This is how it was: Alone, torn to pieces, confused Where where where All you can say is i love you I love you i want you back can't You take me back please just please There's a part of you that thinks you'd almost die You stay in your bed the whole week; All your belongings are familiar with the Taste of your tears. In showers You drop to the ground And bathe in the blood Of your breaking among The soap suds. You no longer eat because didn't He tell you he wanted you skinny, Pinched the fat at your waist, And tell you you're pretty but Maybe you should exercise. You don't care you don't care anyway I'd live without him I'd live without All this food I don't care I'm going back to sleep. You stare at your conversation. Green dot: active. Let's ta-- Delete, delete. He is untouched, unaffected. In the spur of the moment, your Confessions come out as the alcohol Goes in and he is stoic stoic He hears but he doesn't listen. Your vision is blurry and he knows You can't handle it and you're hoping You can feel his arms around you Asking you why are you Doing this don't you remember you Have to go home? He calls a taxi and leaves while You stare dazed at couches In drinking pubs, unloved, uncared. He does not love you. Not anymore. Still, you think it's all a mistake. Alcohol again; drink it like water-- The elixir of forgetting. Dancing on the shore, making Sand angels, screaming my Territory on our side of the beach At 5 am. Everyone goes to the pool to cool off; And it's the average teasing I've Learned to ignore. "Closure," they yell. "Get some closure!" It's almost like it's as easy as saying Get a room. "Hug! Like this!" They egg me on. I'm tired. I want this over with. "I'm fine with it. No malice," I shrug. He takes a shot, furiously shakes His head. "No. No. You don't reach my standards. Not up to standard at all." Silence. Silence. Silence. You can almost hear my heart break. After everything, you send him a letter. You say it's okay. You say you want to meet. You say you want to get some closure. You say you want to get this over with. You're tired of feeling; you're tired of wondering; you're tired of hurting. One day you hear he asked somebody To write you a reply. And that's how you know.

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

Who are you?

Why do you ask? My name's Samantha, and I'm a writer. I think that means I can't help but put my stories to words.

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

Precursor

I remember the good moments the most. Your hand in mine—us together, bound by our love, sealed by physical connection (because, for me, it didn’t feel like simply holding hands but more of us finding our other half, and being whole when we touch)—our laughter over mounds of oily heaven after promises of living healthily, and that damn smile, that stupid, stupid, stupidly beautiful smile. Your eyes on mine, a face I could watch forever.

I thought then that I would love you despite everything. Even when all we could hear on the other end was just cries and pleas of, “I don’t want us to end. I don’t want to let you go. Please just please let’s be okay.” It hurt us everyday but we loved. We loved.

I remember that day in the mountains; tired, heaviness and lead in my bones from all the climbing and walking to see the majesty of the world, the waterfalls that we were promised. We sat at the back of the pick-up truck at noon, feeling the afternoon breeze, shaking empty water bottles above our mouths just for a taste of water. We were tired but fulfilled, and feeling calm in the presence of the people we loved. We were about to pass a bridge. “They said if you can hold your breath until the end of the bridge, your wish will come true,” Master said in Cebuano. “You think of your wish before we pass the bridge, then you hold your breath.”

You. You. You. You. It’s all I want. It’s all I wish.

I held my breath until the end. Afterwards, I remembered Master told you, “I know what you wished.” He pointed at me. “You want this to last. The two of you are so good together.”

We looked at each other then, and I saw the sadness in your eyes, and the uncertainty of what was to come. I didn’t know if we would last, too. We both didn’t. Fights were rampant and I cried too much that I couldn’t lie that I was okay. But we knew we loved each other, and that’s what mattered. We both smiled, and looked at the passing trees. I reached out to touch your curls as the wind made them a mess. “This feels like a scene from a movie,” I said. “I’m trying to remember this moment, so I can write about it.”

It got quiet then. All that was heard was the songs of the world, and the beatings of our heart, all the pining and wishing slowly escaping the cracks of our exterior. I should have seen it then. That it must have been a sign, a precursor to the end.

I remember that moment. I remember it so clearly. Now I’ve written about it but everything has changed. Everything’s different; you’re no longer here.

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

The language of you

All my life, it's been ingrained into my system that A is for apple and B is for boy. Throw me all the letters of the alphabet and I'll fight back with C is for cat and D is for dog on instinct. All my life I've been taught that all the things in the universe can be encapsulated in a word. Ask me to spell my name, and the letters will drip from my tongue like strawberry ice cream cones in summer, "S-A-M-A-N-T-H-A" This is repeated again and again by tired teachers who know only to speak of the same  lessons to the same kinds of students in a cramped classroom. "This is the English language," they said.

All my life, I relied on the rules of grammar to save me from myself because I eat my words up too often, and I need a way to get them out. I realized bulimia couldn't rid me of all the things that I couldn't say because three fingers shoved in my throat only lets the fullness go away, not the words stuck at the pit of my stomach.

All my life, I've been ignorant, thinking that the English language only meant letters and words and conjunctions that fool us with its false versatility.

So when you asked me to spell love, I only knew to say, "L-O-V-E" because some concepts only remain words until reality seeps in. But confessions of "I like you's" at the backs of dark taxi cabs, our bodies laden with the alcohol that shouldn't be, make me think that love isn't spelled with l-o-v-e because nothing so other than us can be fit in four letters.

You taught me the language of you in all of the world, in the way you held me together when I felt like a broken vase that seemed to exist for decoration. You taught me the pronunciation of I love you, with your hand in mine, holding me too tightly, as I struggled with each syllable. "I love you I love you I love you" you said, the words gushing from your mouth like water from a broken pipe. And I said it back the only way I knew how, with my hand on your cheek, and my gaze on yours forever. Because you were a new language, and I was still learning how to say, "Please don't leave me. My home is found in people, and I only want to come home to you."

The language of you is comprised of black graphic shirts with witty sayings, rare repeats of She Keeps Me Warm, long calls whose endings knew only to be at dawn, the search for the best sisig in town, a deep love for eating and burgers, and you, me, us.

You taught me the language of you for 11 months, with 3 days left to a year, and ended lessons with a phone call that finished with, "I don't think I can do this anymore. I think our love has been buried. Only fights run in this river." You were a coward not to face me with the truth, that I was your tutor but passion overrode love, and I was left behind.

You taught me the language of you, and I want to tell you that it is all that I speak now. The fluency is a waste. I travel to places, knowing only to speak the words you taught me, and nobody understands but us. You've taken all my books and dictionaries away; and now I'm left with a language I can't learn and can't speak. Your absence taught me one word in the language of you, and it was ex. It left a bitter feeling in my mouth, and there was a pain that struck me, that continues even until now.

My vocabulary is limited. Ask me now how to spell fourteen, and I can only answer, "You and me, when we met, when we felt we finally found each other" Ask me now how to spell eleven, and I'll say, "It's been a month since it happened. Did you notice I was gone?"

Ask me now how to spell love, and I don't think of l-o-v-e. Often it's a name, a person. Always it's you.

[ateenagerwithablog-blog]

Unsaid

I’ve said this before but the sadness comes in waves and today it is a tsunami, and I am drowning. I struggle to breathe where I am; the sadness is wherever I look, and there is no place to breathe, no respite from the pain. I stop myself from writing in my journals because I know I’ll never stop. The pages are drenched in tears, and the writing is nearly imperceptible from all the splotches my pain has touched. How do you unlove a person so quickly? I am neither capable of letting go a year’s worth of memories or a person in a week nor live my life almost as if my heart hasn’t become little shards of glass on the floor.

This is an entry that can be passed around and told in my absence but I no longer care about the outcome of this post. I write for myself and only for myself, and if this means putting into words one of the most painful experiences that I have ever felt in my life, I would do so in my own time.

It pains me. I am no longer capable of putting up this facade to the very people I love the most. The office isn’t as cozy or as warm as it was before. It was home; it was an escape from the bustling reality of college life; it was family that would love you forever. But today I can hardly stay an hour. The emptiness gets to me. In so little a space, this room is filled often with constant teasings, inside jokes, and shouts of “Shirogi!” yet it all seems so far away. I can feel the emptiness of the room reach deep into me and I can no longer understand how this could have been my home when I feel like a distant relative who visits every now and then. Your very presence fills the room. It was the only thing that mattered to me then and it’s still the one thing that matters now. 

How do you live with the pain? I am in mourning. A week has passed and the pain hasn’t dissipated at all. Time doesn’t fill the cracks made from your touch. You were an earthquake that knows only to leave destruction in its wake. All the cracks in me only leak memories of you, and it never stops. I am forced to live in a world where the reality is I loved you with all that I had and it still wasn’t enough, where the reality is that maybe you didn’t love me anymore those last few months. We fought endlessly, just so I could have you. The office was your lover, and I was a mistress you saw at 12 in the morning. But I’m broken now. I’d rather be your mistress at 12 than nothing at all. 

How does it feel now to get what you have finally wanted? It was always Cru but for me it was always you. I can no longer sleep. I stay awake until 4 and wake up at 7, and the day begins again. The days are long, and I am so tired I wish I could rest but thoughts of you never stop running in my mind. My eyes are dull, and my hair no longer shines like it did before. The storm within me already starts to escape the strength of my facade. 

I am so confused because you were never good for me. All my friends were hesitant to let you stay; all of them already saw your flaws and your inability to fully love me. I know, I know, I know. But I loved you too much to let you go when I wanted you so much to be with me, even if it hurts.

I always knew you would do it all for Cru but I never expected you to love it so much that you could choose it over me. You can finally live your life freely, completely with Cru. You have gotten your lover and left your mistress. You are  ecstatic, unflinching in my absence, unconcerned by the goings on in my life. It was almost as if I never really happened in your life.

And I? Where do I go now? My sadness cripples me. I do not understand how a person can so easily forget the heaviness of my love, and to live so happily without me. The tears are unending. I no longer remember how it feels like to be happy; I only recognize the feeling of pain. I am considering leaving just to save myself because the office and people within it have become toxic to me. I can no longer escape the concept that this group of people were the very thieves who stole my love away from me.

There are so many things I remember but this struck out the most: You told me I was going to be your last. And now, look. You have the world before you. And now I have nothing.

[extrasad]

When I was sixteen I fell in love with a boy who had an entire world inside of him that I was convinced I could spend the rest of my life living in but the world has a way of tearing you apart. I promised I’d love him forever because when I was sixteen I didn’t know that forever really only lasts until your insides spill out and stain the carpet until neither of you can get it out this time or he falls in love with a girl who looks sort of like you but she’s a hurricane that anyone would kill to get caught in the middle of and you’re still afraid of thunder.  When I was eighteen I fell in love with a boy who kissed like a car crash on the edge of the earth and told me he’d love me forever. And I swallowed the blood on the tip of my tongue, still pouring from the back of my throat from the end of the world two years before and I told him I’d love him as long as it lasts. because I will. I will love you. I’ll love you with every bone in my body and all the cracks between them. I’ll love you so hard it could start a fire that could melt you back together and burn away everything bad into smoke that won’t make you cough or choke you up the way the things in your head always would. I will love you as long as it lasts. I’ll love you until the carpet is dripping with spilled words and bruises that won’t fade. I’ll love you until you meet a girl who tastes like lighting from a storm. I will be yours until I’m not. I will love you until I don’t because I am sick of my mouth filling with blood every time I try to fall in love and I don’t want to find myself trying to pick the skin off my bones a few months from now when we’ve really fucked it up and I’ve forgotten how to sleep without you. When it ends, I won’t cry. I won’t find ways to kill myself with all the things you’ve let behind. I’ll smile and spit the blood out of my mouth and walk away. I will not find myself shaking over you in the middle of the night until my teeth crack or throwing up in the bathroom at a party because you walked in with your new girlfriend. I will not miss your voice or try and kiss you when I’m drunk and I can’t tell if the burning in my chest is from you or where the alcohol hit. I’ll love you as long as it lasts and when it ends I’ll kill the girl who loved you and leave her in the box of all the things that smell like you and I will bury her in the backyard and sometimes I might cry for her when it rains but I won’t cry for you.

as long as it lasts (via extrasad)

There are promises I make to myself that I know I can't keep. But I have to learn to live again even if it feels like I'm dying. I will not return to a burning house but still, I am in flames, and nothing can save me now but either you or myself. So death comes to me everyday because no one else visits this damaged being, and I am reincarnated over and over into a world where we don't exist.

I'll love you as long as it lasts but I mourn for the life that could have been.