I am not as weak as the people who refused to be kind to me.
I am not as weak as the people who refused to be kind to me.
I’ll post one song a day, that I like from diffrent genres. I will never post the same song twice.If you stick to my posts you might find something that you like.
As time passes by, it is getting harder - my love for you still feels like a dagger stuck in my chest. The pain has been with me for a while: creeping in at my happiest moments, randomly hitting me in my feels. I wish I could make us never happen, just to skip the pain, dry the tears and kill all the illusions I had created in my mind…
- my late night thoughts
How can biology explain the pain in chest when your favourite character dies
This is getting harder and harder. Day by day. Why is it not getting any easier. Why does it hurt so much. How do you stop the tears from rolling. I have this ache in my chest and a lump in my throat that never goes away. And yet I still get butterflies thinking about times with her, I smile when I hear a song we sang but it hurts. Really fucking hurts.
I am drunk
and very aware of it at that
I know that my body feels floppy and that my brain feels like
a bunch of caterpillars are crawling everywhere in my brain.
It’s strange to me that when I am sober and look back on this that
I might cringe, and be upset in someway
at the version of me that is sloppy and unrefined and
trying very hard to concentrate on what she is typing at this moment.
Why am I writing this? For a future me?
To organize my thoughts before inevitably deleting it? even now i feel myself beecoming more aware of my writing
why am I hurt by it though? To see myself like this?
Am I not still me? Even fuzzy and a bundle of soup that can’t help but think of
How they would be dissappionted
Or how if they cared the way I wanted them to, that they would ask me
how I was or howw I had been.
but i don’t think they care
not the way I do
and when they read this
I can;t find the way to describe this rambling, this mess this
very raw feeling thaat I decided to put on paper
not even paper at that.
Now I feel that the filter of my personality is waning back over me and that
I am sleepy and tired of what they might think of me.
He would be upset that I lowered myself here and that
I’ve resorted to this? But why is this a refugee, or an excuse to be used?
This is still a version of me. She’s not graceful or considerate.
She is in want and in need
of a place to be safe and cozy in.
She wants to feel like this and still be okay and know that she’s still home.
She wants to cook
and sit in contentment
to watch a show and know that
that however I come
That it’s okay. That you know that
I’m still me. And that it’s not as courageous as I could be
but I;’m normally afraid anyways. I cant tell you
I’m in love with you.
Harry: *talks about his friendship with Ron and Hermione*
Draco: My brain hurts.
We’ve never touched, but I swear
I’ve felt your hands
on my skin.
My chest is lined with scars
that I can’t see.
The spell your name out like
It fucking hurts.
Make it hurt
just a little while longer
before you leave.
It never ends…
It only gets worse…
Es tut so weh.
Two thumbnail sketches of a character of mine, Neil Vanderzee, having a well deserved bath after killing his nemesis.
I like feeling untouchable. I like feeling high above everyone else. Not in an “I’m better than everyone” kind of way. Just in a “you can’t touch me” kind of way. Because if I’m untouchable, then I can’t get hurt. No one can get close enough to hurt me. But that gets lonely. And it’s not something I want or need. It’s a defense mechanism that my brain has developed because the people I was supposed to be able to trust, weren’t trustworthy. They hurt me. So if I can’t be touched, I can’t be hurt. And if anyone is brave enough to try to get close to me in a romantic/sexual way, they realize I’m very messed up. They realize that I can’t handle intimacy or sex or even kissing. Sometimes I can’t even handle my fingers touching because I just don’t want to be touched that much. When I’m in a relationship, I’m on constant alert because my brain is convinced they’re going to try to hurt me. And that’s exhausting. Which makes it even more difficult. And it’s just this stupid cycle.
There’s a line in the live action Cinderella movie, “Kindness is free. Love is free.”
I’m here in the middle of the longest year of my life (back dated to September and ignoring the current shit show) with the loss of 2 cats, one grandparent from my 2 friends and myself, and watching yet another cat wither away. And I find myself wondering at the above quote- because it’s a sentiment repeated across media (along with others). The monetary price is free, sure, but what about the emotional price? We know our actions have repercussions for ourselves and others. So what happens when our actions backfire one or both ways?
When does your kindness turn you into someone’s villain? When does love turn rotten? When does an act of mercy gouge your heart out? How do we cope when we try to do good and end up hurting instead?
Kindness can hurt. Love can hurt. Mercy can hurt. And it can hurt anyone.
The people who see pain in the world and give their care in return are the strongest people I’ll ever meet or know about. And I know that I’ll never truly be one of those people, maybe because I’m terrified of loss, maybe for another reason I haven’t figured out yet. But I don’t think I’m in a place to be that strong.
Idk, this was going to be something more informative and less personal but sometimes you gotta get stuff out i guess.
Like how leaves of a tree change it’s colours. Like every color it changes in to symbolizes any women’s standards when it comes to their dream soulmate. But every leaf withers.
I was made of glass inside. the delicately formed globes of color. glass bones, glass lungs, above all, glass heart. i was mistaken for fragile, vulnerable. maybe it wasn’t a mistake. but maybe anyone would break, if so many people had walked on them instead of holding them. There i was, hardly able to stand anymore, with everything in me cracked and crushed. when finally all of my broken bits turned into pointed shards. and as ragged as i was from being torn from the inside out by them, the next person who tried to step on me got cut up too.