Posts tagged with "Thoughts"


There is a certain sadness in happiness that is subtle and quiet, the way there is pain in pleasure and monsters within perfection. We are raised to believe that it is one or the other, but paradoxes do not exist the way solid walls do; we see walls as protection rather than a hindrance between things whereas paradoxes are fluid like stained ink. Even when we have climbed the tallest mountain, thoughts of accomplishment are suited with reminders of “what happens next”, whether it’s to climb all the way down or the fear of possibly falling off, even worst, wanting to do it. At the sight of bravery and courage, there are but the slightest breath of fear; fear of failing, of dying, or the fear of the unknown itself can haunt us. When we are happiest, we have the most to lose but how could something so pure be so terrifying? You can’t smile forever but you definitely can’t cry much longer than a few hours. We can smile and laugh in the midst of mourning the way we could cry of laughter and joy. We can still feel lonely in a crowded room and occupied in empty space. These things exist within one another, the way I exist in you. 


But you cannot deny my presence. 


You are everything I never wanted, a bundle of paradoxes to challenge my beliefs about relationships, but a love so pathetically helpless that I know nothing more beyond what I feel for you. I’ve tried, oh how I’ve tried to stray away traits that resembled you but my heart sought after your ghost in every face I met. Between the open wounds that were left ignored and unspoken confessions that rested behind our ears, I built my entire persona based on strength and the reluctance to include love as a struggle but you were my greatest and most mentally agonizing fight. I was left completely broken and on my knees, I swore to never return to the city we painted with our blood. There were far too many victims left unnamed as they came to the wrong place at the wrong time and somehow stepped into our messes. 

When you fell in love, our memories became a vacant ghost town and all that lingered dissipated into the skies and I was liberated from the chains engraved with your name. I spoke of us with a bitter tongue but a broken heart. No one knew and even I thought I had convinced myself but the truth never settles beneath ignorance so it crept along our presence and brutally invaded these mental corridors until we could no longer deny it. There is just too much that goes on and we’re left with these feelings and we don’t know what to do about them—so we mask our hearts with white little lies to lessen the pains. But it hurts anyway and when the day arrives and you tell me you want to give love another shot with her, I will be the unnamed ghost left behind, tossed into open trenches of the forsaken past because you were mine—even if it was in the most temporary and transparent way. 

My love for you destroyed me.


1. Strangers love my poetry about us more than you do even though you told me once the reason you fell in love with me was my words. Is this a lesson on how time slowly kills everything and all we can do is watch?
2. You tell me to stop giving in to the pain but some nights, that’s the only way I can sleep.
3. You used to be my North Star but now I’m my own source of light.
4. Your name feels like rocks in my mouth most days so why do I keep saying it?
5. It hurts you to watch me hurt and it hurts me to watch you hurt. You call this enabling but I wrap it in a ribbon and call it love. This may be why I’m a writer and you’re a scientist.
6. I’ve tried to find thousands of different ways to say this but here is the simplest I’ve come up with: I never quite figured out how to care about you halfway. I try to harden my edges but they soften every time you call and I will forever be the girl who drives 7 hours across state lines in the middle of the night to hold you while you cry.
7. When I called you from the airport the other day, what I said was: ‘about to get on the plane, just wanted to say bye’. What I meant was: ‘I don’t trust these metal birds. I’m human, what am I doing trying to fly? Let this be a record. I was here. And I loved you’.
8. I still miss you and I still haven’t found a good enough reason to pretend this isn’t true.
9. My hands are black with ink and when I woke up this morning, my head ached with the nightmare of a half-formed poem. Do other people have this much to say?
10. My little sister told me today that she wanted to be a writer and I didn’t know whether to kiss her forehead or cry.
11. My father says that hindsight is 20/20 so if you need something to look forward to, let it be that this will make sense to you someday.

Fortesa Latifi - 11 Things That Kept Me Awake Last Night (via madgirlf)

(via in-veritas)


When you are hurting, there will always be people who find a way to make it about themselves. If you break your wrist, they’ll complain about a sprained ankle. If you are sad, they’re sadder. If you’re asking for help, they’ll demand more attention.

Here is a fact: I was in a hospital and sobbing into my palms when a woman approached me and asked why I was making so much noise and I managed to stutter that my best friend shot himself in the head and now he was 100% certified dead and she made this little grunt and had the nerve to tell me, “Well now you made me sad.”

When you get angry, there are going to be people who ask you to shut up and sit down, and they’re not going to do it nicely. Theirs are the faces that turn bright red before you have a chance to finish your sentence. They won’t ask you to explain yourself. They’ll be mad that you’re mad and that will be their whole reason alone.

Here is a fact: I was in an alleyway a few weeks ago, stroking my friend’s back as she vomited fourteen tequila shots. “I hate men,” she wheezed as her sides heaved, “I hate all of them.”

I braided her hair so it wouldn’t get caught in the mess. I didn’t correct her and reply that she does in fact love her father and her little brother too, that there are strangers she has yet to meet that will be better for her than any of her shitty ex-boyfriends, that half of our group of friends identifies as male - I could hear each of her bruises in those words and I didn’t ask her to soften the blow when she was trying to buff them out of her skin. She doesn’t hate all men. She never did.

She had the misfortune to be overheard by a drunk guy in an ill-fitting suit, a boy trying to look like a man and leering down my dress as he stormed towards us. “Fuck you, lady,” he said, “Fuck you. Not all men are evil, you know.”

“Thanks,” I told him dryly, pulling on her hand, trying to get her inside again, “See you.”

He followed us. Wouldn’t stop shouting. How dare she get mad. How dare she was hurting. “It’s hard for me too!” he yowled after us. “With fuckers like you, how’s a guy supposed to live?”

Here’s a fact: my father is Cuban and my genes repeat his. Once one of my teachers looked at my heritage and said, “Your skin doesn’t look dirty enough to be a Mexican.”

When my cheeks grew pink and my tongue dried up, someone else in the classroom stood up. “You can’t say that,” he said, “That’s fucking racist. We could report you for that.”

Our teacher turned vicious. “You wanna fail this class? Go ahead. Report me. I was joking. It’s my word against yours. I hate kids like you. You think you’ve got all the power - you don’t. I do.”

Later that kid and I became close friends and we skipped class to do anything else and the two of us were lying on our backs staring up at the sky and as we talked about that moment, he sighed, “I hate white people.” His girlfriend is white and so is his mom. I reached out until my fingers were resting in the warmth of his palm.

He spoke up each time our teacher said something shitty. He failed the class. I stayed silent. I got the A but I wish that I didn’t.

Here is a fact: I think gender is a social construct and people that want to tell others what defines it just haven’t done their homework. I personally happen to have the luck of the draw and am the same gender as my sex, which basically just means society leaves me alone about this one particular thing.

Until I met Alex, who said he hated cis people. My throat closed up. I’m not good at confrontation. I avoided him because I didn’t want to bother him.

One day I was going on a walk and I found him behind our school, bleeding out of the side of his mouth. The only thing I really know is how to patch people up. He winced when the antibacterial cream went across his new wounds. “I hate cis people,” he said weakly.

I looked at him and pushed his hair back from his head. “I understand why you do.”

Here is a fact: anger is a secondary emotion. Anger is how people stop themselves from hurting. Anger is how people stop themselves by empathizing.

It is easy for the drunken man to be mad at my friend. If he says “Hey, fuck you, lady,” he doesn’t have to worry about what’s so wrong about men.

It’s easy for my teacher to fail the kids who speak up. If we’re just smart-ass students, it’s not his fault we fuck up.

It’s easy for me to hate Alex for labeling me as dangerous when I’ve never hurt someone a day in my life. But I’m safe in my skin and his life is at risk just by going to the bathroom. I understand why he says things like that. I finally do.

There’s a difference between the spread of hatred and the frustration of people who are hurting. The thing is, when you are broken, there will always be someone who says “I’m worse, stop talking.” There will always be people who are mad you’re trying to steal the attention. There will always be people who get mad at the same time as you do - they hate being challenged. It changes the rules.

I say I hate all Mondays but my sister was born on one and she’s the greatest joy I have ever known. I say I hate brown but it’s really just the word and how it turns your mouth down - the colour is my hair and my eyes and my favorite sweater. I say I hate pineapple but I still try it again every Easter, just to see if it stings less this year. It’s okay to be sad when you hear someone generalize a group you’re in. But instead of assuming they’re evil and filled with hatred, maybe ask them why they think that way - who knows, you might just end up with a new and kind friend.

By telling the oppressed that their anger is unjustified, you allow the oppression to continue. I know it’s hard to stay calm. I know it’s scary. But you’re coming from the safe place and they aren’t. Just please … Try to be more understanding. /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)

(via she-whispers)


sometimes being sad for no reason is worse than being sad for a reason cause there is absolutely nothing you can do to make yourself feel better

(via s0nnderrr)

To tell you the truth,

I don’t have much to offer. But I’ll still give you everything I’ve got, even if it’s barely a thing at all. I’ll give you late nights, good massages, someone to talk to, someone to care for, someone who will always be there, a hand to hold, somebody to lean on. And if that’s not enough, just know you have all of me. I hope that’s enough.

(Source: stfudarlenespeaks, via 0bdurat3)