onhans:

sometimes, i stumble down
and after i hit the ground
i wonder why
no one bothered to catch me

then i realized
no one holds out their arms
for people who pretend
they are not falling

element-alchemist:

bedroom—hymns:

clusterphoque:

do you ever get weirded out by the fact that everyone around you is constantly within their own mind and thinking a million secret thoughts and battling internal struggles just like you and that you’re not the only one who thinks these things and that the people around you aren’t just faces meant to fill up your life but they’re actually really deep people who have a lot more to them than you ever actually even think about

c-ourfeyrac:

xv.

and were you being good to yourself? 

warsanshire:

[love letter to self]

i don’t think so. but, i forgive you, girl, who tallied stretch marks into reasons why no one should get close. i forgive you, silly girl, sweet breath, decent by default. i forgive you for being afraid. did everything betray you? even the rain you love so much made rust out of your jewellery? i forgive you, soft spoken girl speaking with fake brash voice, fooling no one. i see you, tender even on your hardest days. i forgive you, waiting for him to call, i forgive you, the diets and the cruel friends.  especially for that one time you said ‘i fucking give up on love, it’s not worth it, i’d rather be alone forever’. you were just pretending, weren’t you? i know you didn’t mean that. your body, your mouth, your heart, made specifically for loving. sometimes the things we love, will kill us, but weren’t we dying anyway? i forgive you for being something that will eventually die. perishable goods, fading out slowly, little human, i wouldn’t want to be in a world where you don’t exist. 

anicea:

ee cummings

"One day I decided that I was beautiful, and so I carried out my life as if I was a beautiful girl. I wear colors that I really like, I wear makeup that makes me feel pretty, and it really helps. It doesn’t have anything to do with how the world perceives you. What matters is what you see. Your body is your temple, it’s your home, and you must decorate it."  - Gabourey Sidibe (via calloway)

"

My nails always look nice, and I have a lot of new shirts. Things are going pretty well for everyone but my check card. And all of this can go under the heading of “self-care,” of paying attention to what my body is telling me it needs.

But my body also feels alone.

"  - You Say You Don’t Want a Boyfriend, But You Know That’s Not True.

ON BEING A SHITTY SAD SELFISH TWENTY-YEAR-OLD 

aleashurmantine:

1.
Your roommate comes home to find you
in the kitchen, in old sweatpants and a lace bra,
heating soup on the stove. You wonder

what she thinks of your stomach, its pillowy folds, if
it isn’t a little obscene, how it grows softer every day
while you stand there, tearing chunks off of a baguette,

barely chewing, constantly swallowing.

2.
Your friend invites you over for a movie. Cancel because your
feet hurt. Cancel because your fat stomach hurts. Cancel
because he thinks you’re beautiful and you know you aren’t.

3.
Consider writing the boy you love another letter
to tell him you are sad that he ignored your first letter.
Wonder when you stopped worrying about being

a “crazy girl.” Acknowledge that becoming one
feels natural, like tugging at ivy until it’s uprooted, like
holding the vine and watching soil fall from the roots,

back to more soil, gently.

4.
Fear every man who looks at you.
Hate every man who doesn’t look at you.

5.
The train whistle you hear every night
sounds like the cawing of an angry crow.
This is not the mournful song everyone

writes about, not the lone bassoon stretching
its neck into the night—this is something harsh,
dogged: blaring sandpaper, a smoke alarm.

6.
Think about getting hit by a car almost every day.
Resent that you can’t think of anything more creative
or less passive.

7.
But that boy. You have spent most of a year unraveling
your skin for him, draping strands of it places
you thought he’d notice, your teeth always chattering

like crude drums calling him to battle across the room,
across three states, across your bed. The woman he loves
is a magnet. You don’t know what you are, but you suspect

it is something less permanent, something
more likely to dissolve in water.

8.
Eat the whole baguette. Lay in bed
sweating. Don’t call anyone back. There’s
that train whistle again: furious, obscene.