Untitled

2019

MAYBE YOU’RE RIGHT. MAYBE THIS IS INDEED MY FAULT. I MEAN IT’S MY BRAIN THAT’S FUCKED UP. IT’S MY WRIST THAT’S BLEEDING. IT’S ME WHO CAN’T LET GO. IT IS TRUE THAT WHAT YOU DID TO ME DIDN’T CAUSE THE WOUND. YOU JUST TORE OPEN WHAT WAS ALREADY THERE. 

Maybe you are right. In some way I, too, know this isn’t your fault. It is true that what happened didn’t cause the wound. The actual hurt was from when I was too young to* remember. You tore open what was already there, gentle at first, fingers soft against my skin as you inspected the damage. You let it be, promised me it would get better with time.  It didn’t. I bled through every bandage you gave me. You blamed me. Told me I was causing the bleeding.  Your gentle fingers became claws that dug into the tender flesh. I kept hoping you’d heal me. That’s what you promised me after all. You should’ve told me. You should have told me you didn’t know how to heal me. You should have been honest. You shouldn’t have blamed me. 

just on a whole other level of sad rn

IF ON THE FIRST DAY WE MET YOU’D HAVE KNOWN THIS ALL WOULD HAPPEN WOULD YOU HAVE TALKED TO ME AT ALL?

any size titty is lit

any booty size is lit

any belly size is lit

reblog if you’re gay, shy or a fucking idiot

is all of the above an option

-Camila Cabello, only told the moon