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Everyone reblog this. Mandatory.
Human version of tangled earphones
We have nothingburger and everything bagel, implying the existence of a third, elusive contender: the Something Sandwich
depression snack
They will identify you as their next victim.
They will first bomb with love and then hate.
They will disguise their hate as distance and avoidance.
They will leave you to assume majority of the responsibility for the disconnection.
They will leave you feeling rejected and less than.
They will leave you feeling regretful that despite you past similar experiences you decide to like someone again.
They will leave you sick and tired of seeing videos on social media about inconsistent communication, toxic relationships, red flags, and etc etc etc.
They will kill all the hope you have to actually be chosen, desired, and wanted.
They will kill your memory and move onto their next victim.
¡Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias! (Strictly Ballroom, 1992)
there’s a break in the rain, where the sun peaks through the dull grey and its light refracts off the droplets of water on everything.
small slivers of light burst into technicolor puddles looking like oil slick and smelling like heat. y’know, those days where it’s warm and damp and you can smell the humidity rising from the ground and wrapping around you in something that feels kin to sherpa.
it’s bright though and the sky is clearing and wet grass is sticking to my boots and tracking into the car and im not even upset because the day is pretty and smells like rain and you’re smiling at me and even the prettiest days couldn’t compare to the heat that pools in my hips at the scent of your black current and mint perfume.
you remind me of the sun peaking through and drenching puddles in soft light before they become dull and muddy. that quiet in between a raging storm and an icky day. the moment the sun shows her face again. the moment the ground warms. right before it becomes too hot and sticky.
the perfect, fleeting moment.
you sneak around with me as though we’re teenagers again. clashing teeth and bruised lips. your hand twirling a piece of my hair and telling me im pretty.
pretty even with the scars and pretty even with the fire rippling just under my skin. as though you could brush your fingers over the place where my thigh meets my knee and feel the fault line. the uncertainty that I could keep it together, and you don’t care about the stability I lack.
and we’re young, but the skin under my eyes is dragging ever-so-slightly and the hair closest to my roots is greying. and we’re young, but my knee cracks when I stand and an ache shoots from my lower back and makes it hard to breathe sometimes. and we’re young, but my knuckles are permanently swollen and I forget things easily and sometimes I sleep too much and ive been told I zone out too often.
and we are young aren’t we? barely adults and yet I feel a thousand years old.
except for when you grab my hand under the table and pull me aside with hushed whispers and hurried secrets.
there’s something youthful about hiding again. something alive about it now. something I did’t think about as much as I did as a kid, because not every attraction has to feel like dying.
not every moment has to feel like death.
sometimes a moment feels like the sun peaking through grey clouds.
sometimes it’s revival.
