u a man or woman?
A burden, really.
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u a man or woman?
A burden, really.
🖤👆🏼
“I am a day dreamer and a night thinker.”
— Unknown
“Hoping for the best, prepared for the worst, and unsurprised by anything in between.”
— Maya Angelou, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
It's all lying broken in my feet again
Every hope, every gentle dream I carried carefully for months
Every portrait of myself I've repainted, in hope it'll represent my progress
Every framed memory I've cherished and idealized
And suddenly I feel too exhausted to even pick it up
I don't wish to salvage any of this
It's funny how something you've been building for months can fall apart in seconds
Perhaps we should measure something's durability, by how long's been falling before breaking, rather than how long's been up
And I keep walking on the broken glass trying not to stare back at my own red eyes on its surface
I'm sure my wounds would heal if I'd stop opening them to prove they still hurt
This and just getting home to u
i hate that my heart still wants you to love me.
The thing. The thing that was fuckin up your brains for months, six years ago. The thing you never thought it'd pass. How's it now? Do you even remember what it was? It passed, everything will. Whatever's bothering you now will pass too.
Toughen up. Yeah, I said it. It's time you stop expecting the world around you to bend to your feelings. The harsh reality is that other people don't care about you and only you are responsible for your well-being. Stop taking what others say personally and stop placing so much value on the opinions of nobodies. So what if they don't like you? Do they even like themselves? Do YOU like them?.
Once you've mastered the art of detachment from the perception of others and lower your expectations of people who haven't made any pledge of commitment towards you, it will become easier to develop a thicker skin, to become more laser-focused on you and your own well-being, and to disregard that and those who do you no good.
In a world of snowflakes, be a diamond, which never breaks or bends under pressure.
To be replaced is not to vanish,
but to linger as dust.
Present, yet weightless,
forgotten even while you remain.
There is a silent pain
in the way the memory of you fades.
When you can almost feel yourself slipping away
You are still there,
pressed between pages,
but the ink grows pale,
and the story turns forward
without your name.
It is a quiet kind of grief
not loud enough to break,
but steady enough
to remind you:
That being forgotten
hurts differently
than being gone.