My Blog:P
When a boy tells you he loves you, it’ll be the first time you hear this.
It is late and he isn’t even there to tell you this in person but instead from a car ride home from a bar in Chicago; he is there on business.
And of course you will smile, because he sounds like he means it, because you believe him.
Because a boy has never handed those words to you like crushed blackberries in the palms of his hands firm, young, full, waiting to taste sweet with you.
His arms; creeping vines begging to touch the sun in your face saying “here, take everything I have ever touched to be closer to you”.
His breath waiting to be folded into a love note passed in between the nape of your neck and his front teeth.
He will remember the time you told him you felt safe in his mouth, and he will never grow hungry… just distant.
When a boy tells you he loves you, you will hear music, the voice of your past lovers dancing up your throat; your stomach an after-hours cabaret still waiting on the last call.
That was when you learned that when a boy says I love you he means I am getting ready to be inconsistent with you now.
This boy will tell you that he loves you, not long after he had you waiting for two hours in front of a cocktail lounge.
Patience is something you were working on but no, not for him.
When asked, you to tell him that you love him back; you will be in the car in the parking lot of a late night diner you will watch the words fall into your lap like a spilled glass of white wine.
You remember the day your core, your pigeon heart got lost in the wind because that was a message it did not know how or where to carry and one by one the boys have fallen as silently as the birds do.
So eloquently they used to speak until I asked the questions that broke them into ghosts that bled me into a corpse with so many questions of my own for the soil but their tongues do not know simple; the things I should be hearing, the things that what make us living men in this time of insatiable yet dying lovers.
When a boy tells you he loves you only to become silent like a folded sheet of tissue paper not wanting you to decrease him into the truth, do not crack your face into the fullest crescent moon at the tapered bottom of a blackened sky, he never meant a single word of any of it.
He is just a boy, remember?
He is just another silly, sad boy, remember?
I think a lot about killing myself, not like a point on a map, but rather like a glowing exit sign at a show that’s never been quite bad enough to make me want to leave. See, when I’m up I don’t kill myself because holy shit! there’s so much left to do! And when I’m down, I don’t kill myself because then the sadness would be over and the sadness is the old paint under the new. I’d still be me without it, but I’d be so boring.
Neil Hilborn (via to-withstand-the-force-of-storms)
And I pretend that everything’s okay. Not only because I don’t want to disturb people, but mostly because I don’t think that they can understand, and I just can’t explain why I’m so sad. It’s just inside of me. I can’t describe it.
Neil Hilborn (via bronxtony)
I am not trapped in my body. I am trapped in other people’s perception of my body.
Ollie Renee Schminkey, Boobs (via the-jackals)
Sometimes I too want to be a poem
I don’t want to be this pain, but the language used to unearth it
Sometimes I curse archaeologists for telling us basic tools; telling us basic things
Sometimes I think scientists are lazy
I too could dig a heart out of the chest
What do any of you know about pulling the history out of a body without killing it?
Just yesterday scientists discovered a new ligament in the human knee
Just yesterday I found out I can’t sleep for a whole new set of reasons
Michael Lee - “Just Yesterday” (via i-am—fine)
Of course naked ladies always want to have sex, of course your outfit can mean you want to be raped
But in my experience one of the cheap perks of having sex with an adult is that if they want something, they can ask for it.. For instance, if I’m at dinner with my mum and I want her to pass the salt I don’t put on my special salt costume, I ask for the salt, with my words.
- Anna binkovits (via hellodonttouchme)
Every mouth you’ve ever kissed
was just practice.
All the bodies you’ve ever undressed
and ploughed in to
were preparing you for me.
I don’t mind tasting them in the
memory of your mouth,
they were a long hall way,
a door half open, a single suit case still
on the conveyor belt.
Was it a long journey?
Did it take you long to find me?
You’re here now,
Welcome home.
Warsan Shire (via loulabugs)

Most of the kids my age wanted to fit into some kind of clic.
But me…no…no, I want to unzip my veins and watch all the pain flow down that bathtub drain cause maybe then I would never have to feel it again,
But I couldn’t you see I had school the next day and the principal said if I missed another day that I would get exspelled..and boy…would I miss so many days.

Most of the kids my age worried about the essay that was due in English class, while I worried about the letter I was writing to my parents because I thought they at least deserved a five paragraph explanation as to why there baby girl let the noose be the last thing to hold her when they were the first to hold me.

Most kids my age joined a sport like track, the gym teacher said I should join because they were short on people. But I said no because if I can’t out run my own problems who’s to say I can out run the boy who thinks he’s going to win an Olympic gold medal after the meet. So I stayed home.
Most kids my age wore the latest brands while I wore the freshest cuts and the old scars that reminded me how bad last year was and how it was going to get worse and worse.

I think about killing myself a lot, if you haven’t already noticed yet. I couldn’t though, most of the time I feel like a coward cause I can never do it. You see I think of my life as a lit candle. If I just lick my two figures and I would put that flame but one wrong move and I was going to get burned.

Most kids my age do not understand kids like me and yet they have the audacity to ask me “What’s wrong with you?”
What’s wrong with me.
What’s wrong with me!
What is wrong with me?
I have absolutely no idea. I’m afraid.

dunesan (via dunesan)

One. Her obsession over her body will improve her overall looks.

She will never leave the house without makeup,
will always take the time to cover the purple and blue ringing her eyes,
to brush her greying hair that falls out when you touch it.
Her hands are soft with lotion she uses to smooth the teeth marks on her knuckles
Her nails are always well manicured so they don’t scratch her throat.

Two. She costs less money.

When you take her out to dinner with your friends,
you will have to buy her nothing more than a salad.
As she slices her lettuce leaves into thirds, your friends will stare,
trying not to ask you what the fuck is wrong with her.
Eventually, you’ll be so embarrassed that you won’t take her out to dinners anymore.

Three. She’s fragile and vulnerable.

Her skin will bruise when you hug her too tightly,
her shoulder bones digging into your arms.
On the days when she tells you, “I’m sorry, there’s nothing left of me,”
you will have to hide the knives and box cutters, will find yourself wondering
if she can hurt herself with a fork.
You look at her and wonder if her bones are hollow like a baby bird’s.
Did you know that mother birds throw up food into the mouths of their children
To make sure they eat.
Have you ever asked her who she is trying to feed by emptying herself?

Four. She probably has money of her own.

She will hate herself for how her disorder hurts you,
but it’s too hard to talk about it, so her apologies are disguised as gifts.
Picking up the bill: I’m sorry I threw up your mother’s Thanksgiving dinner.
Basketball tickets: I’m sorry that most weekends I am too tired to get out of bed.
A new watch: I’m sorry you have to spend your time watching me die.

Five. She’s better in bed.

When you lie next to her, you can trail your fingers down her spine,
feel each vertebrae pushing out of her skin,
all the way down her back in a perfect line, the last bridge she has left to burn.
Flip her over.
You can run your hands over the hills of her ribs,
dip your fingertips into the deep valleys between each bone,
those deserts of famished flesh.

She will be great in bed, telling you to push harder, harder,
push her so far into the mattress that she disappears completely.
She will say your name over and over and over
until she forgets her own.

Date a girl with an eating disorder. Watch her transform from a girl,
to a body, to a skeleton with skin, to a skeleton in a box. Remember
how this was supposed to be easy, how dating a girl with an eating disorder
wasn’t supposed to be like this.

But this is what is really is. And you fucking asked for it.

Megan Maughan “5 Reasons to Date a Girl With an Eating Disorder” (via kilories)
Think of the year you wasted confirming that yes, you are in fact, sad.
Think of the year after that it took to get help,
Think of the time you could’ve spent teaching or running or doing anything but telling yourself that you’d leave your room in just five more minutes.
Neil Hilborn, Sad (via elijahstandingstill)