hard-tolove-me reblogged
hard-tolove-me reblogged
“Falling in love is like a car crash. It takes two to happen at the right place, at the right time. And suddenly you wonder how this possibly happened? If only I didn’t take the long way home. If only I wasn’t driving 71 mph instead of 70. If only I didn’t take that extra minute to find the right song to play on the radio. Could all this been avoided? That’s how falling in love can be. You find someone without actually looking. You crash into them and all of a sudden, you realize every single choice you made in your entire life, whether bad or good, led up to this moment. This moment where the love of your life is standing right in front of you. And as you look into their eyes, everything just makes sense.”
hard-tolove-me reblogged
wnq-writers
“It was good for a while, being empty. I didn’t hurt anymore. But as time went on, it was like I could hear myself from far away, begging for permission to come back.”
— Myra McEntire, Hourglass (via wordsnquotes)
Source: wordsnquotes.com
hard-tolove-me reblogged
wordsnquotes
“Infatuation is when you find somebody who is absolutely perfect. Love is when you realise that they aren’t and it doesn’t matter.”
— Unknown (via wordsnquotes)
Source: wordsnquotes.com
hard-tolove-me reblogged
“Isn’t it fucking terrifying that no matter how many promises they made, no matter how long you’ve been together, someone can get up and walk out of your life without a second thought and you have to carry on living because the world doesn’t stop for any of us”
— Unknown
Source: helpingg
hard-tolove-me reblogged
“Grow for yourself and never for the ones who taught you that you weren’t enough.”
— Juansen Dizon (via juansendizon)
hard-tolove-me reblogged
“Home is where somebody notices when you are no longer there.”
— Aleksandar Hemon
hard-tolove-me reblogged
Source: seduced
hard-tolove-me reblogged
hard-tolove-me reblogged
Source: instagram.com
hard-tolove-me reblogged
frail-cat
I am trying to write a poem about my loneliness
But the page just seems to insist
on staying empty.
But loneliness isn’t emptiness
loneliness is the lead ball in the pit of your stomach
and the feathers tickling the back of your throat
loneliness is the itch you cannot scratch
it’s feeling far too much
far too little.
Loneliness is an all consuming enigma
of the past
of a past
Of a past you’re trying to forget
Of a past you can’t help but regret
Of a past that shoved you into the position
of isolation in which you reside
In which you’re going to die.
And sometimes solitude becomes gratitude
but the demolition of the monuments
that used to be perched on my ribs
left nothing but dust
and I am no longer grateful.
I used to build shrines in my heart to girls who would
never quite love me.
But that was never loneliness.
Unrequited love is a social activity because broken hearts
scream louder than all the wind in the world
howling together.
Despite the rain and miserable weather
I could fill myself up with love even though no one
would ever reciprocate
even though I always had to compensate
by giving more than I had left in me.
I would clutch my chest and rip out pieces of my heart
on which metaphors for love and birds and bones
and sadness and stars
would rest.
I could gift these to those who smiled.
Because nothing cuts into loneliness like affection
or attention
or the smile of someone who has no
reason to.
I suppose I never had a reason to.
I am trying to write a poem about the rain.
They say that people are nothing like rain
nothing like snow
nothing like autumn leaves
because people do not look beautiful when they fall.
A phrase I could never quite wrap my head around.
Because to me falling is dancing
and dancing is writing
and writing is cleaning your body of the toxins
that well up behind your eyes
and hide behind your liver
and pump fluid in your lungs.
What isn’t beautiful is hitting the ground.
The snowflakes will dissolve and the rain
will be absorbed by the greedy earth.
The leaves will rot
and you’ll be taking shots
Until your heart falls out of your chest.
Loneliness is falling
and falling is dancing
and dancing is writing
and I am trying to write a poem about my overwhelming
fear of touching the solid ground.
I am trying to write a poem about falling
Because I reside in free fall
and my heart falls for the snow
and the snow falls for the rain
and the first rule of gravity is everything
must fall
So we fall
And I fall
and you fall.
Fall (Emf)
hard-tolove-me reblogged
Truth is, I just want you to need me, to want me. And I know that everyone says you have to be independent, and you have to be fine on your own before you can let yourself rely on someone. But it’s late and my chest feels heavy and your eyes are the most beautiful shade of green I think I’ve ever seen and even if it was only for tonight, only for right now, I think being in your arms would make it all hurt a little less.
- people need people // An Excerpt From A Book I’ll Never Write #22 (via thisvastlove)
hard-tolove-me reblogged
I don’t need you to light up my world. Just sit with me in the dark.
askpristin (via wnq-writers)
Source: wnq-writers.com
hard-tolove-me reblogged
She’s the kind of girl you want your parents to meet right away because you know that you made the right choice this time. You know she’s not like the others, you know you treat her with love you never gave before even though no one taught you to. You know she deserves someone better than you, but it would hurt you to let her go. She’s the kind of girl who made the mornings worth of your awakening, she’s the kind of girl you don’t want anyone to touch as if crystal was her semblance. She’s the kind of girl you want your parents to meet right away, because you really know you made the right choice this time.
crashinginlove (via wnq-writers)
Source: wnq-writers.com
hard-tolove-me reblogged
Source: poemswords
hard-tolove-me reblogged
How easy it would be to love perfection, but to love imperfection is the challenge and the reward is that we learn to love and accept ourselves and the many other imperfect people we come across day to day.
(via deadsensescompany)
hard-tolove-me reblogged
i. I am my own worst nightmare and there are no two ways about it. I clink my wine glass against my chest, it shatters - conclusion, I am made of stone. I try to bite the rust from beneath my thumb - conclusion, I am a bicycle chain, adhering to endless walls. I pass through windows, I pass through floodgates, through shaking hands - conclusion, I am a phantasm. I am the night’s callous cat call, fondling the blushing sky, ending the trees’ matrimony with a summer bloodier than my unkempt mosaic of a ribcage, seducing the winter, this body of contorted blooms. ii. Where did the rain go? Why don’t we talk to each other anymore? Does it hurt to look into my eyes, these sludge-filled pools of buckling brown where my withering once presented itself as a death or a mercy? I don’t want to travel through ragged portals of love in sub zero temperatures, and I’m sick of mapping the icecaps of your contaminated heart, your mottled stars, your pits of hunger. Yet I think, maybe we’ll be okay here, if we just close our eyes and mime home. If we just regenerate these wasted lives. iii. I remember being twelve & accepting my existence, not as a girl, with hair worn like the willows & lips parted in eager breath, but a bloodletting - what froths at the mouth & fumbles for, desirous evenings, angry, humble, tragedies amidst the train station crowd, a reckoning, a massacre in motion, a smiting of seas, a grievance of scars. Reclaiming the might of hell itself. Loosening up your sore gut and the plump conscience. Trailing something pink between the thighs of shivering mountains. A beheading. Driving along country roads that turn you into a panting dog chasing its own tail. The first intake of breath after a kiss. Diving headfirst into fatal waters.
iv. Sunday morning glory, silence in the barracks, the household walls sweat nervously, a second coming, surely, the birth of a god, surely! It can’t be the end. This can’t be the end. v. Sweetheart, your love is a fetus, here, watch it grow, watch its tiny fists beat against the scraped surface of the mirror, and here is its spine (and you think, you can almost feel its heart, setting fire to all the villages on the other side of the river, maiming fences, stealing children) and here, we have the mouth, foggy as a swamp and slick with a warring tongue. It was never made to speak. It was made only to interrupt, to chagrin.
vi. We are a pagan ritual. We are a blast of cold air. We slide the knives into our sleeves. We engulf, we envelope, we are living, we are dead. I take your hand, I close my eyes. We feel our braces tighten. You lean close, you whisper: darling, there is nothing that can stomach us. Not in this world, not in the next.
hard-tolove-me reblogged
Hope you find comfort in all of the lies that you told.
Jhené Aiko, ‘Lyin King’ (via reclaim-simplicity)
hard-tolove-me reblogged
somepiecesofmyheartandsoul-deac
There are days when I feel that the Sun is a little too bright, the water, a little too cold. And everything else is a little too loud. On such days, I want you to gently hold me and lay a kiss on my forehead. Tell me that I am still loved even when I feel a little too unloveable. Tell me that I am loved.
Lukas W. // Tell me I am loved (via somepiecesofmyheartandsoul)