Growth is painful. Change is painful.But nothing is as painful as staying stuck somewhere you don’t belong.
- Mandy Hale (via ronweaselys)

My mother tells me
that when I meet someone I like,
I have to ask them three questions:

1. what are you afraid of?
2. do you like dogs?
3. what do you do when it rains?

of those three, she says the first one is the most important.
“They gotta be scared of something, baby. Everybody is. If they aren’t afraid of anything, then they don’t believe in anything, either.”

I met you on a Sunday, right
after church.
one look and my heart fell into
my stomach like a trap door.

on our second date,
I asked you what you were afraid of.
“spiders, mostly. being alone. little children, like, the ones who just learned how to push a kid over on the playground. oh and space. holy shit, space.”
I asked you if you liked dogs.
“I have three.”
I asked you what you do when it rains.
“sleep, mostly. sometimes I sit at the window and watch the rain droplets race. I make a shelter out of plastic in my backyard for all the stray animals; leave them food and a place to sleep.”

he smiled like he knew.
like his mom told him the same
“how about you?”

I’m scared of everything.
of the hole in the o-zone layer,
of the lady next door who never
smiles at her dog,
and especially of all the secrets
the government must be breaking
it’s back trying to keep from us.
I love dogs so much, you have no idea.
I sleep when it rains.
I want to tell everyone I love them.
I want to find every stray animal and bring them home.
I want to wake up in your hair
and make you shitty coffee
and kiss your neck
and draw silly stick figures of us.
I never want to ask anyone else
these questions
ever again.

-three questions | Caitlyn Siehl (via alonesomes)
I will always love the false image I had of you.
-This is so true man (via unstable-skies)
Beautiful things happen when you distance yourself from negativity.
-(via disorder)
I don’t know that we are actually human at this point, those of us who are like most of us, who grew up with TV and movies and now the Internet. If we are betrayed, we know the words to say; when a loved one dies, we know the words to say. If we want to play the stud or the smart-ass or the fool, we know the words to say. We are all working from the same dog-eared script. It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters. And if all of us are play-acting, there can be no such thing as a soul mate, because we don’t have genuine souls. It has gotten to the point where it seems like nothing matters, because I’m not a real person and neither is anyone else. I would have done anything to feel real again.
-Gillian Flynn, Gone Girl (via katara)

Do not tell me that
the cracks in my skin
where I let the sadness seep through
make me beautiful-
they are anything but.
They are my hate and desperation
blazed into the blanket of my body,
those moments where nothing was beautiful
and it seemed as though
nothing would ever be beautiful again.

If sadness is so lovely,
why did my worst moments happen
with oceans searing my eyes
and hurricanes raging through my chest,
splintering ribs into my lungs,
lodging bones into the crevice where
a heart should beat.

My scars are not gardens
nourished for growing love;
they are the darkest abysses
that I must keep myself
from falling into again.

-Emily Palermo, If You’re Looking For Flowers, You Won’t Find Them In My Skin (via starredsoul)
I am the girl who prefers to spend her Friday night curled up with her pillow, reading a good novel, and I am also the girl who likes to go out on a Saturday night and dance until the DJ plays his last song. I am the girl who wants to wear beat up converses and an oversized sweatshirt, and I am also the girl who owns over sixty dresses and too many shoes to count. Why did it become okay to say one is better than the other? Because I am all of that.
-Ming D. Liu, What is “better?” (via nonelikejesus)
I don’t like sleep. I like glassy, red-tinted, half-shut, blurry visioned “fuck me” eyes. I don’t want to have sex just because it’s nine thirty on a friday night and your parents are out for dinner. I want that look of acceptance from your mother when you say we’ll go out to eat with them and that look of satisfaction from you when you keep your hand on my thigh under the restaurant table all evening. I don’t like sleep. I don’t like laying in bed, just allowing the present to become the past like it meant nothing after it’s happened. I like staying up too late on the good days, and even more on the bad days, thinking that maybe things will get better the longer I’m up - knowing they won’t, but still hoping they might. I like the vulgarity of late nights. Like all the bad decisions come out with the moon, or when the music from the bar across the street gets louder to cover the fact that everybody’s breathing just got a whole lot heavier. I don’t like sleep because I can’t stop thinking that if I didn’t sleep, I could stare at the night sky long enough over time to finally see a star die. People ask me why I look tired all the time. And there’s no way to say that I stayed up all night to count every star to try to sum up even a quarter of a fraction of how I feel for you. So I just say I had nightmares again. And I don’t think I’m entirely wrong. No, I don’t like sleep. I don’t like feeling like I’m missing chunks of my life, like I’m blacking out and not even with a drunk story to tell about it. I don’t like knowing that life fast forwards for me while it’s crawling for you. Because I keep trying to get on my hands and knees to keep up but it doesn’t seem to be working. No, I don’t like sleeping. Not alone, and not here. So maybe not ever.

Entirely Wrong by k.p.k

(via towritepoems)