you give a damn about me

If I'm arguing I care, if I'm silent, I'm done

cr. namuspromised

she falls in love, and it is like sunlight and lavender and the collapsing of stars.

she has never been able to decide who she falls for, not really, not for the crushes that step into her dreams and her writing and her art. she wishes she could, sometimes, if only to prevent her own heartbreak.

she is not loved in a romantic fashion. she knows that, has known it for years. people do not like her like that. it is okay. still, it might be nice to crush on someone who she has a chance with, for once. she's panromantic, gender is a construct and she's pretty sure her only 'type' is eyes that are darker than hers, but she always manages to fall for the ones that she could never have anyways.

the girl who plays with her hair and says "you're so pretty," and means it but not like that, who gets a boyfriend who sits nearby and whom she speaks to in dry sarcasm, who she like despite herself because they are cute together and he will be good to her, if she cannot be hers. the boy who makes her laugh in the empty classroom as they sit alone at lunch together, hiding from the heat of the island and the judgement of the world and the pain of reality, who twirls her around in hugs and makes her feel like flying but keeps falling back into the same bad relationship with a girl who she wants to like but can't. the beginning of a crush she doesn't want to think about, a doomed rose sprouting even as she attempts to cut it down, a pale bud appearing even as she prays to a god that she doesn't believe in that she is wrong, that she is just being silly and idealistic, because the rose blooms for someone who could never, will never, return her affections.

she is not totally unloved, she knows. her heart is blind, and she fills it with friendships (for she has learned to be kind, finally, and she finds she likes it) and she loves her friends with all of her. still, her most foolish of organs whispers of romance and roses and a partner who will think her beautiful and maybe mean it, and she hears to well to not listen. she has learned her heart is dreaming of impossible things, but that does not stop it from doing so.

she makes herself be content, for what else is she supposed to do? she decides she is okay with never having anything more than friends, and thinks one day it could be true. she cuts away a rose bud and reminds herself of the impossibility, and hopes she'll fall for someone, anyone else, if only to cling to shreds of foolish hope she cannot have with this love. she dreams, and she writes, and her hopes for her future always include a shadowy someone, but she knows this is an impossible fantasy.

she loves. and romance is sunlight and lavender, growing things and golden hope, but it is also collapsing stars, black holes and firey endings. she decides to build walls around her heart, ones that will resist even that which pulls in planets and galaxies and time itself, and tells herself it is for the best.

love, she knows, will only end in a broken heart, shattered glass she will have to pick up and put back together again.

but the rose keeps growing nonetheless, persistent, and she watches it begin to bloom once more. she sighs, and picks up the dustpan, and prepares herself to lie and smile and shove heartbreak deep below the surface of her eyes.

this is what she has always done, for love is not in her cards, and she thinks this is what she will always do, for she cannot change the spread.

she hopes otherwise, but she has never been very good at hope.

she loves, and it is sunlight and lavender and collapsing stars

and it is the sound of clippers snipping off a rose's head and walls being built around a heart and a broom sweeping broken glass into a dustpan.

and that is how it will always be.

(Phrase) I'm madly in love with you and absolutely adore you but can't actually say that because it sounds creepy.

— takethisride (Instagram: take.thisride)

I truly don’t care about being considered difficult. I said what the fuck I said. I want what the fuck I want.

show me every scar and let me kiss it

A lover who’s also your friend. Not somebody that you just lust, because it’s real easy to do that. Somebody that you can connect with intellectually and mentally. No judging. Just being yourself. That’s real beauty.

Different love languages: