At some point, I have to stop writing about the people who left. I have to stop rewriting stories to make it look like nothing ever ended. At some point, I have to declutter my workspace and throw away unsent letters, delete drafts that I can’t finish, take down tiny notes I accidentally published.

I’m tired of twisting tales. They left and that’s all of it.

I hate the way you talk about yourself. Like you’d be better looking if, you’d be stronger if, people would like you more if-There is no if. Love people for how they exist right now, in this very moment. Love people for their stretch marks and their scars, love people for their mistakes and their failures. Love people for getting back up. Love people for the way they laugh too far, for the things they get so excited about they won’t stop talking. Love people now, not when. There is nothing you could do to improve yourself that would make me love you more.
—  laceerainspoetry, I Love You Now, Not When

I never wanted you to go.“ She looks into his eyes and spits out the truth she’s hidden in the vault beneath her .”

“But I knew you wanted to go and I never wanted to be an anchor to drown you down. I wanted you to be happy.


I want you to be happy even if doesn’t include me// S.M

By @poeticsania

I always thought I might end up being alone. I’m too attached with my own soul and too fascinated with the concept of love that sometimes I don’t believe someone could handle me the way I handle all the monsters living inside my head.
—  sorealmaria

I have left pieces of me in everything I used to love. Some of these pieces are traveling the world, exploring lands and breaking free. Some of these pieces stand tall and brave, holding arms and protecting our lands. Some of these pieces are mixed with poison, wickedly foul and seeking vengeance.

I don’t want any of these pieces returned. Do with what you wish. But I intend to never escape your memory. Haunt you, I shall, my dears.

—  Marissa Farina, The Ghost of Me
If you’re going to forgive everybody who hurts you, then be sure to forgive yourself too. You don’t deserve to carry that heavy burden whilst easing the burden of others…
What she didn’t realize is that regular people don’t think like writers do. They don’t wonder about strangers, they don’t romanticize everyday activities, and they don’t focus on the descriptive details.
Only writers see the way sunlight dances on every passerby. Only writers focus on the many emotions that eyes and smiles contain. Only writers find solitude in the middle of a crowd.
She wanted to be loved by a writer and he just didn’t see life the way she did.
—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write, 51
“The writer’s point of view”