I Post For The Bitches That Used To Get In Trouble For Reading Under The Desk During Class In Elementary

Novels and my incomplete imagination

The pile of books keeps on increasing,

My insanity finds it’s home

In collecting old books and sniffing the folded pages,

In hope that maybe I’d find a memory hidden somewhere,

In between Shakespeare and John Green;

There’s Murakami,

Who so eloquently explained me that you leave your love behind when you die,

But no matter how much I wanted to,

I pretended to not understand,

Why he chose to hide the girl in the woods,

Maybe because I was doing something just the same; only thing different was I hid her beneath my bed,

And as for my incomplete imagination,

I’ve left bookmarks in each of the unread books,

Bookmarks with butterflies and rainbows painted like a kids drawing book,

Somewhere near the very beginning,

Hoping that someday I’d reach the end; not just of the book; but of my own,

And some days I sit and run my hands through them,

Dropping stains of tears like bullets on every page I turn,

You’d never find me asleep with a book on my chest; and my glasses still on,

Because I gave in to my empty imagination,

And to time,

Where,

At 2 am my demons keep me occupied as I write their names in my diary,

To please them as they dance to the tune of the songs I sing,

To stop myself from falling apart,

And sometimes I join them too,

And we hold hands and;

Laugh,

And go around in circles until my mother comes to stop me from turning insane,

Maybe one day,

I’d dance with them again,

This time in front of the flames of the burning books,

Burning memories,

Burning feelings,

And a burnt love story,

We’ll dance like tribesmen,

Unaware of anything,

And maybe that day,

My mother won’t come save me,

Because I’d be far far away from anyone’s reach,

I’d be dancing within the flames,

Burning and knowing that,

When the fire dies,

Something will be born from the ashes again,

Alongside a copy of Fahrenheit 451 will be my insanity.

It’s almost as if nobody wants to admit that they might not be prepared to do the work it takes to love somebody. And it can be laborious. To be intimate with someone who is flawed (which is the standard) requires us to expose our own flaws. We don’t talk about the heavy responsibility of that. We don’t talk about how we’re too lazy or too cowardly sometimes. We instead accuse love of being elusive. It isn’t. It is omnipresent. It asks us to be better people. And sometimes we flat out refuse.

no consuming this media isnt enough i need to go on a walk and think about it to music

“I need to fall in love with a hopeless romantic. Someone who would tell me that my eyes are like the stars at night and how my morning bed hair looks like a windswept forest that dances whenever the sky cries every time the ocean quenches her thirst for love. Someone who believes in fate, destiny, and magic. Someone who believes that finding true love is a necessity to cope up with the sadness and agony that life brings. Someone who believes that I exist.”

— Juansen Dizon, Confessions of a Wallflower page 111  

Savannah Brown, from Closer Baby Closer; “Notes on your dramatic exit from the house party”

[Text ID: “OH YOU DO LOVE THEM / YOU DO / JUST NOT / IN THE WAY THAT LETS BOTH OF YOU LIVE”]

Reblog if it’s ok for your mutuals to just send you posts they think you’d like or talk to you about random parts of their day

not love at first sight, but soul recognition

some things you never really get over

the texts you wish you wouldn’t have sent in the first place. the first time you let the boy touch you. the girl who came to your bedroom every evening; i swear i can feel her besides me on certain evenings. when you read your favourite poem to the girl who could’ve been the love of your life. the guilt of not speaking to your childhood best friend for over a year before she died. when your father told you that you’re his biggest mistake. your mother’s misery. becoming the third friend on the sidewalk that only fits two. love. rot. love that becomes rot and buries you.

May you be released from wanting things that aren’t meant for you.