Hey, stop scrolling.

Everyone who is reading this: I’m so glad you’re alive. I’m so proud of you. You are loved. I’m here. Don’t give up, we’re almost there.

Pass it on.

And retweet it here ! https://twitter.com/leo__pace/status/934054931304153088

over the years i learned to hate my birthday. i’ve spent 18 years watching my friends as they got their locker decorated, party’s planned even when they insisted they weren’t having one, their boyfriends showering them in flowers and love poems. while each year when my birthday comes around it’s full of twitter balloons instead of real ones, my best friend forgetting until the days half way over even though i’ve been with her since 8 am, and boys breaking my heart. why can’t just one year people treat me as though i am actually special to them. maybe it’s because i’m not.


My lover has depression. 

It’s the tremble in his voice and the voice within his sleep. It’s the shadow on his stairs and the stairs to his dark place. 

And when he cries I cannot breathe; for when it rains, it floods us both.

—  he can’t give up on this // A.S