inked friends

He’s just a friend…

A friend who makes me laugh like there is no tomorrow
A friend who causes butterflies
A friend whose hugs I never want to get out of
A friend who makes me feel nervous
A friend who has the most beautiful eyes in the world
A friend who whispers sweet words

hell yeah, he’s just a friend

—  Just a friend

How can you look at yourself
And say you are nothing
More than a space filler
When everyone you meet
Is in awe of your glow
How bright your smile gets
As you talk about you passions
And the way you move your hands
As if you are conducting an orchestra
With every sentence every motion
Another melody plays out
The way you open you heart
To everyone and everything
And always see the best
In all situations
How can you think
You’re nothing more than background noise
When the whole world lights up
Because of you

Love is being away, but not really. Because even though weekends are short, movies are fun anyway–two separate screens, one in the middle of the dawn, the other in the middle of the day. Love is that laughter echoing on two sides of the world, announcing that happiness knows no space, no distance. Love is that comfortable silence passing through the line when both of you have nothing to say but want to stay on the phone anyway. Love is listening to their stories about dinner with their friends while you’re with yours, having lunch. Love is listening to the same song at the same time, humming. Love is heading to two different destinations at the same time but assured that at the end of the day, you are each other’s home. Love is counting the days until you’re back together. Love is crying sometimes because you couldn’t wait. Love is wishing that time differences don’t exist. Love is wanting to be close all the time. Love is the urge to get a plane ticket and just run to them. Love is waiting anyway despite the impatience. Love is knowing that it’s worth it. Love is the person on the other side of the world–worthy.
—  Irally Cariaso, on long-distance relationships
a letter to my ex

Last week I opened up the drawer in my vanity and pulled out a picture of us. The picture is still as it was the day that it was printed, smooth and free of imperfections. Your arms are around me, your chin on my shoulder, and god I looked so fucking happy that I still don’t always understand what happened.  It’s been two years and I thought about how long I had that photo neatly tucked away somewhere that I couldn’t see it, somewhere that I couldn’t cause any damage to it the way that I did to us. I’ve apologized to you, so many times, but I feel like none of them have ever really registered, not when they’re always like this, just letters on a screen.

I’m sorry for the monster that I became in the time leading up what happened to us. I’m sorry for  who I was after, and who I let myself remain for too long. I became a darker version of myself, I became someone who even I couldn’t recognize and I hurt a lot of people around me.

I feel like in a way it isn’t fair because these other people gave me the opportunity to fix what I had done in person, to repair and mend friendships and make them stronger, and I’ll never get that with you.

I’ll always have this half friendship, this half unexplained, half anger, half hurt, half, half, half. Always stuck without a resolution.

Sometimes I think about this day that I had called you, it was when I was at my lowest, I don’t know if you remember. I was at work, and I was sitting on this really old staircase that still had carpet from the 70s, it was this really awful red and brown color. I called you while I was sitting there, and I couldn’t stop crying. I had never dealt with depression the way I was dealing with it then, I had never felt its slithering tendrils grip onto me like that before. Everything I knew was falling around me, everything I had created and built for myself falling apart. It felt like being trapped in a burning building, like I was suffocating but the flames just wouldn’t let me die. And that’s all I wanted, fuck I wanted it so bad that every day I was fighting myself over it.

I was crying so much that I could barely see the room, could barely even feel myself sitting down.

I don’t even know how you understood what I was saying, I just knew that I was falling apart and your number is the one I dialed.

That was when you still picked up.

You don’t answer my calls anymore.

I understand, I mean, I don’t know if I would want to answer my calls either. They wouldn’t have the same context but I can sit here and say that it’s only because I still want to hear your voice. There’s a comfort to it, and there’s days where I wish it was a comfort that I didn’t know. At least if I didn’t know it, then I could never miss it.

When I was that person I did things that I don’t remember, I said things that I can’t believe I would even think of. I let the creature in me take over and lock away the softer side.

All I wanted was to be self destructive, all I wanted was to see how much more I could push myself, to see if I could handle more hurt. I wanted to see what it was that was finally going to break me for good.

It took me four more months after that phone call to finally become the shattered pieces that I wanted to be, because the only way to fix myself was to actually break. Nothing killed me, not physically anyways. Maybe it’s the reason why I’m a little bit arrogant now, because I know I can survive.

I know that even now I’m not the person I was before the darker times, and I’m ok with that because the person I am now wants more out of life, the person I am now wants more for others as well. I may be more opinionated but it’s my passion to help others that makes me that way, my passion to make sure that people don’t break the way that I did.

There’s a point to all of this. It’s just taking me awhile to get there.

You don’t care for me the same that you do, because I know you see the person who lashed out, you see the person that set the sun and pulled up the night, and I’m sorry that you were witness to that, that you had a narrative in that story.

You had asked me to be your friend and I was still fucking awful and I think about that the most. That you asked something of me and I couldn’t even do it right. It’s why now, you could ask anything of me, and I would do it, because I will never be able to make up to you what I did.

My heart wont ever let things fully die, and it keeps telling me that you’ll never hear me sing off key again and that I wont see you roll your eyes at me, that we both wont smile when you tell me that I sound horrible and that I tell you that I wont do it anymore. But then that night when we go to read a story together I sing the first page of ‘The Bell Jar’ and you groan but let me do it anyways.

I’m getting to it, I’m getting to it. Give me a minute.

Do you know that I can’t even remember the first time that we said “I love you”? It’s not that it wasn’t memorable, it’s because I made myself forget and I hate myself for that. I hate that even at my worst I still loved you so much that I never wanted to feel that way again.

I always say that things aren’t about deserving, I’ve preached it so many times, but when it comes to you I bite back that opinion because people like me don’t deserve to be around people like you. And I wish I didn’t think that, but it’s always there, every time I talk to you, how I don’t even deserve a simple text message. Maybe I’m a bit masochistic, maybe I like keeping myself stuck in the “pain and guilt” stage of grief.

Maybe it’s my very own purgatory, where I stay in this little cut out where we’re still some semblance of friends but I’m always wishing things were different.

I know that they’ll never be, and that we’ll always have this weird kind of friendship but it’s better than nothing. Maybe we’ll always be better as friends. Maybe one day I’ll no longer feel jealousy when it comes to you. Maybe one day I’ll feel about you, the way you do about me, and we’ll both just be happy for each other regardless of what happens in our lives. Maybe one day I’ll have moved on too and we’ll have these separate lives and different stories, and maybe then we don’t even think about each other, and maybe things will no longer remind me of you. Maybe then I can look at the books we read and not even remember that I shared those pages with you, maybe then I can finally get rid of all of the things that I kept, all of the things that I lied about and said that they were gone. Maybe then colors will just be colors and they won’t remind me of your shirts, or your favorite team, or anything at all that has to do with you. That I can finally look at that white dress and not immediately think, ‘I was wearing that the first time we kissed.’ Maybe then I can laugh and not remember all of the times that you made me smile. Maybe then I’ll no longer feel the weight of guilt because you’re happy and I’ve told myself that’s all that matters, and maybe then I actually mean it.

I’m sorry that to this day I’m never fully honest with you.

You were always something unexpected to me.


sorry I don’t have a lot to post these days I’ve been struggling with some things but here some sketches inspired by @matchaball fic Inking Indigo which I hope to finish soon (along with your belated birthday gifts I’m so sorry they’re so late)

read interesting books. listen to beautiful lyrics and melodies. write your own stories. go to concerts, parks and museums. study hard. take care of yourself. stay hydrated. learn to appreciate the little things. travel. learn a language. remind your friends that you’re there for them. be kind, and feel.

Even if you find
someone new,
to talk to every night,
to hang out with every day,
to share the giggles and
laughter at some
secret jokes,
to walk with and tell
wonderful stories,
I am still here,
waiting for you
to knock at my door
and sit beside me,
like we never missed
each other,
I am still here,
even if you’re not asking.
I am still here,
even if you weren’t
going to be there
for me anymore.
—  ma.c.a // A Promise

“how did you know that it was over? that you should leave him?”, she asks her best friend.

“simple. i asked myself two questions: do i love him? and, does he make me happy?”


“yes, yes i love him. but no, he doesn’t make me happy. and just being in love with someone isn’t enough. if that someone can’t make you happy, all the love in the world can’t help you. you will just end up destroying yourself for someone who isn’t even worth it.”

—  e.s. // all the love in the world can’t help you.

You will survive this. Every day you get out of bed, even though every bone in your body is begging to stay in bed and let the sheets swallow you up.

He broke your heart, and that isn’t a metaphor, I know you can feel you heart breaking between your ribs. You loved him and you trusted him and he didn’t even give you a real reason why. But I need you to know that nothing that you could have possibly done could give him license for the way he has treated you since leaving you.

You were together for two years, that type of relationship deserves respect even when it is over. You don’t need to defend him anymore, that isn’t your job. You’re allowed to think he is an asshole, that doesn’t mean he was an asshole the whole time; it means he has changed. You have to seperate who he was within your relationship from who he is with his friends now.

People tell you that there are plenty more fish in the sea. And I know that the thought of opening up to another person is overwhelming. Because while there may be plenty of fish in the sea, all you can see are sharks circling. Just because the one you loved turned into a shark, doesn’t mean everyone after him will be out for blood. Trust that in time your wounds will heal.

—  A letter to a heartbroken friend.