“me too” two little words became a rallying cry a scream of solidarity they’re louder than any “you’re not alone” could ever begin to shout i look to my left, to my right and see both hands being held by someone uttering those two words
“me too” hurts to hear more than their hands, their mouth, their body ever could i wouldn’t wish this pain on anyone else not even my worst enemies i wouldn’t ever want to hear another person say
“me too” is said far too often by far too many and it’s goddamn time we stop teaching how to dress or how to stay safe and start teaching that “no” means “no” that nothing justifies violating another that it should sicken and anger you to know how many people will say
“me too” are you listening to us? do you hear what we’re saying? are you saying it too? and if you’re not thank god for that but i hope that means instead you’re saying
Today was a great day, no one texted me back, I probably failed a big exam, and I have no friends, but in the end, all of that made today an even better day. Even though fate, the world, and everyone I know hated me today, I loved me. I loved what I did, I loved my smiles, I loved my laughs, I loved my art and my movies. The world was just a painting.
I have a problem admitting when I’m hurting. I’m always trying to stay happy and content that when I fail in doing that, I feel like I lost, like I made a mistake. And let me tell you something, there wouldn’t be a rainbow without the rain.
He says that he likes me because I have a pretty mouth, and sometimes he makes me feel like I have a pretty mouth
because he kisses me like he’s never known anything better.
and I think I’m supposed to be happy,
but my tummy still hangs heavy on my body and my thighs still look huge next to his.
And I wonder if he finds my flabby upper arms pretty,
or my bulging cheeks and my wide forehead pretty.
I know he doesn’t think of me as pretty.
He only ever looks at my eyes when we’re laid together. He only ever touches me where I am hardest.
Where I am most comfortable.
And it still surprises me when he asks me if he’s pretty. I mean, sure, he’s beautiful.
There’s no question about that. It’s clear to see.
But I’ve never paid attention to his looks as a whole. Only ever his collarbones,
only ever his fingers, where he is prettiest.
Never his face, never his whole body.
I don’t think I will ever be comfortable with my whole body. But I have learned how to love my lips the way he loves them,
and I’ve learned how to love my fingers and my nonexistent collarbones the way I love his.
And I remember the times I slipped stars
under my skin, hoping that I glow as bright as they do,
and the day I realized that no light will be
brighter than the one I shine on myself.
The sun has set. The leaves on the trees are motionless; there’s no breeze to move them. It’s all still, painfully still, as if everything simultaneously lost the will to move when the word goodbye slipped from her lips. It’s in times like this that people speak about tomorrow. About better days, about better people, about a love deserving of a person like myself. They talk about how she just wasn’t the one as if that would do anything to put the pieces of my heart back together. At the end of the day, it all boils down to the same thought–