“Hey, dork?” Spot said, nudging Race with his foot where he dozed on the sofa beside him.
Race was barely awake, rubbing at his eyes and yawning and his offered Spot the little attention he could spare, with the rest being focused on how quickly he could get back to napping.
"Apparently we’re ‘doing vile and shameful things with each other’s bodies’ by being gay,” Spot read off his phone, trying not to laugh.
There were two options when you found a post like that. One was to cry. To get frustrated that there were still idiots in the world who actually believed that stuff, and get fearful of the dangerous world it created. But Spot didn’t cry, not anymore. He’d shed his tears over homophobic assholes and rejection as a teenager and had trained himself to always take the other road: to make fun of the post and how wrong it was, which was so much easier when you didn’t have to face it alone.
James get’s jealous and you get irritable, love prevails! *queue fireworks and celebratory flock of bald eagles*
“Oi, Padfoot, quit chatting up my bird! You’ve ‘ad enough time with her, lemme at my girl, why don’t you?” Sirius sighs pointedly at James and sidles in front of you protectively, “Shove off, horn-head. She’s still mad at you.”
You say you love others who are as torn apart as you are.
Wounds may be similar, but you see no two scars are identical.
We may be torn apart and our destruction may be alike,
the final factor though, the frontier between peoples pain is that we’re affected in different ways.
I tap the bottom of a bottle and spit out
the first drink ever since last May.
I flinch every time and my heart starts to shake,
not beat faster or slower, but shake.
I’m positive that I’m going to die one of these days because of it.
My friend tells me theres nothing wrong with me,
but what will they say if I overdose? If I simply disappear?
You may cry sometimes and wish for things. You may do things to attempt to forget, or for a good time but it’s not the same.
We aren’t as torn apart as each other.
You have a past, I have a past,but more of an
ever-unrolling wrapping paper type of a past.
There’s always more than you thought there was.
Please do not misinterpret my message,
I’m not saying I’ve suffered more, I’m saying it’s not the same.
We may both be torn apart, but.
Maybe I do still think about you a hundred times a day. Maybe I do still think of you when I do certain things, like wear my hair that way you loved or listen to a song you showed me. Maybe I do still cry sometimes, pieces of my heart rolling down my cheeks as fast as rivers. Maybe I do still feel that last kiss on my lips some days. Maybe I do still say your name a little sweeter than his. Maybe I am still struggling to let go. But at the end of even my very worst days, days when I saw memories of you everywhere I went, only heard your name in every story someone told, I’m still a little less broken than when you left me. I can breathe. I can laugh. I can get out of bed, put on my makeup, and make it through the day without crying all of it off. I can feel the cracks you left healing, feel my mind pushing you out a little more every day. I know I will wake up one day, maybe in a month, maybe in 10 years, but one day I will wake up next to someone who loves me just as much as I love them. Someone who will recognize that when I love, I love with everything in me. I don’t believe in holding back. I will give him everything, and he’ll love the good, and he’ll love that I’m honest about the bad. He’ll spend his whole life loving that I talk so much, and that my laugh echoes off the walls. He’ll spend his whole life loving that I’m clingy because he knows that texting him every 20 minutes when we’re apart is my way of saying that he’s the most important person in my phone. He’ll spend his whole life loving my big eyes and watching the colors change. He’ll spend his whole life loving my arms around him, and my late night “I love you"s, and my random bursts of goofy that he’ll never understand but he’ll love that it keeps him on his toes. He’ll spend his whole life loving all the things you did, but he’ll love them enough to know that someone like me can’t be replaced, and he’ll know better than to let me feel unloved. He’ll spend his whole life loving all of me. And on that day that I wake up next to him, I won’t remember the boy who took my love for granted when I was 17. But trust me, you’ll remember me. A small piece of you will always remember me.