secret series

When I was fifteen, I saw my mother cry hysterically and my father yell ferociously. I sat nervously pressed against my locked bedroom door as I heard glass break against the tile floors and doors slam so hard the windows shook. The chaos behind my strawberry frosting colored door was louder than the rapid beating of my breaking heart. I don’t exactly know where it went wrong or why their love diminished, but that day I learned that love wasn’t invincible. The next day my father stood at the front door with his clothes packed in a duffle bag and asked me to choose sides. When I chose my mother he stopped calling, he stopped visiting–he stopped being my father. That day I learned that words dig deeper than knives and that they can leave the biggest scars. In the end, I learned that the people you love don’t always stay.
—  Natalie Meza, Secret Series (Part I)

He said,
“I want to see the real you.
I want to feel you without a shield,
put your guards down,
and let me in.”

You think he means
the thoughts in your mind,
the many holes in your heart,
and the words you write
on late nights.

So you fuck him,
not because you love him
but because he made you believe
that he did indeed
fall in love with you, too.

— 

It’s hard letting go of someone who was your first. He was my best friend but after we did it, he stopped being my friend.” // M.D.L

they always say:
“fall in love with a writer”
and people imagine this whole other world
of intricate labyrinths
and armies of malicious letters
guarding the doors
of one’s unmappable mind.

no one ever mentions
how easy it would be to dive
into the dark ocean of your eyes
without worrying
about height or parachutes or life vests
or
how I could spend lifetimes
tracing constellations of the freckles on your face
as if they were enough
to guide me on a starry night
back home
or
how you are that kind of fire
I would recklessly burn my fingers with
again and again
denying everything I have ever been told
for a glimmering drop of your light
because you are the mere depiction
of my survival instinct.

if I asked the ocean to have mercy
and time to stop
would you meet me in the middle?

—  “He’s a writer and I am his muse. He’s hard to love but it’s easy for me to love him.” // luana gavan
When his pronouns changed from she to he, the S dropped silently into my hand and crumbled to dust. He thanked me for being there when the curves of his body rubbed the wrong way and he did not feel at home in the skin he was in. I look at him now and I see love in his eyes and love in his heart. Maybe you really can’t love someone else until you love yourself.
— 

I’m dating a trans boy and he told me he was so happy I was there to help him through his realization and he looks at me like he’s in love with me and this has never happened before

Source: inksoakedpaper

maybe it’s because
the first time I kissed you we were at a sleepover and we were surrounded by friends and I tasted the entire universe in the way your lips pressed against mine and you pulled away and said ‘that felt weird’.

maybe it’s because
you haven’t changed the way you look at me since then but I can’t stop my eyes from drowning in the oceans behind yours and you know that I’ve never been a strong swimmer.

maybe it’s because
I stopped going to Sunday church so I wouldn’t bump into you singing hymns to a religion you don’t really believe in, I’ve never been good at lying to myself like you were.

maybe it’s because
we were 7 when you taught me how to tie my shoelaces into a butterfly knot but you never taught me how to untie the knots my stomach forms whenever your hand grazes mine.

maybe it’s because
I go through my days with my body dragging behind yours like my heart somehow chained itself to your touch and you pull and tug at my heartstrings whenever you smile my direction.

maybe it’s because
we’ve been best friends for 6 years and I can never kiss you again because you would never feel half of what I felt at the contact of your lips.

—  Confession: “I kissed my best friend at a sleepover, time passed and I fell for her, but I can’t bring myself to kiss her again.” // by rb
It’s one of those pains, where you almost tell a stranger about the whole thing, like, “Excuse me there, sorry to disturb but there’s this guy who has the nerve to make me fall in love with him when we cannot be anything more than friends or "siblings”…
& get this, his eyes turn colour in the sunlight & sometimes I stare directly inside & I can see our silhouette under the moonlight…“
But all I can do is walk past everyone with my head down & my mind in the clouds…
Because this whole world is you…
Duct-taped hearts, foggy mirrors, you…
Sun-bleached oceans, campfire songs, you…
Lighthouses, sunshines, you…
How dare you make me fall when you’re not falling too…
—  “I’m in love with a guy I can never be with”
Today, my English professor discussed poetry—
that it is a way to express internal feelings externally
and the lonesomeness I felt in the back of my heart
could by spilled by misadventure; sloppily on paper
and still seen as a beautiful oeuvre.
but I cannot vaguely express or even fathom words
to script carefully in ink the euphoria you made me feel.
these butterflies can’t escape from my stomach
and just land themselves on a paper.
the thought of losing you cannot rip my filthy
ribs apart to claw out of my physique and
tear my words to shreds.
please don’t turn yourself and whatever we have
into something I can write about someday.
—  secret series: i don’t want him to turn into a writing someday. i want us to last. i want him to last, s.a
Sometimes I think I’ve overcome most of my bad habits, but then I find myself lying alone in bed at 3am screaming your name and wishing you would love me again.
— 

It doesn’t feel like a crush. When we hug it feels so right, when we lock eyes across the room and smile, it feels like a secret only we know but he’s not over her. We’d be so good together.

thesoulpages || ((c.n.p))