I’m not the person that I used to be. None of my exes would be able to identify me. I’ve grown flowers in a garden once filled with tainted soil. I think differently, I love differently, I fuck differently, I express myself differently. And I drink a hell of a lot more. I am more courageous about taking risks with my time and my future. I am softer to strangers and those I hold dearest. I am more optimistic even though I know I will always be a realist at heart.

Despite all of the growth, I am not yet the person I want to be. I will plant many more seeds in my garden of growth. I will embrace compassion. I will strive for empathy. I will take more time to be understanding. I will allow myself moments of reflection on the ways I have grown, but only long enough to grant myself the inspiration to become who I want to be.

—  the garden of my being

There’s people out here who are full on addicts at 18, 19, 20 years old fucked up because the stigma when it comes to drugs as a whole has shifted. Nobody will doubt that crack or meth is horrible but lean and shit isn’t regarded in that light. It’s sad.

You want me to love that version of myself you created but to hate the version of myself that I am.
I’m sorry darling, but if you love me, you love all of me, I’m not willing to sacrifice parts of myself for you.
—  giulswrites
Everything is still so vivid to me, from the day you first embraced me to that morning you told me you like someone else. It’s been years, but the memory of you still remains. I still keep the letters you gave me and the song you wrote for me. The cap you always wore back then, before you put it on my head that night you left, still hangs in my room. My lips still remember how it felt when you first touched it with yours. You hugged me tightly before finally devouring me with passionate kisses like there’s not tomorrow. Until now, my heart aches a little whenever I hear Radiohead’s Creep because you used to sing that to me. My relatives still ask about you sometimes, but I just laugh it off. Isn’t it a wonder how you’ve long gone and moved on, but pieces of you seem to be scattered here still? You’ve left but I do not know if I remember our relationship to be my happiness or my greatest sadness. It’s too damn hurtful of you to share everything I loved and take away a part of it with you. It’s so unfair, so unfair, that I still see the image of you but you are no longer here anymore.
—  AM // when he leaves but the memories don’t
people underestimate the connection
two writers or poets or artists can have
it is either viewed as friendship
or love or something in between
but many a times it is none of it,
no they aren’t in love,
no they aren’t just friends,
no they are not anything in between either
what they feel for each other
is a pure pure thing that
not everyone can understand
but that doesn’t mean
they can’t be friends or lovers or soulmates