If Im Not 20lbs Down By Christmas

“She is written in a foreign tongue.”

- Henry James, The Portrait of a Lady

(via)

I am not capable of healing. Every single thing that has hurt me and caused me pain or broken me in some profound way has distorted into this wound that bleeds at the slightest touch

“I owe myself the biggest apology for putting up with what I didn’t deserve.”

— Unknown

Okay. Come on, then. I love you, get up, we are going to keep going. Repeat this to yourself in a mirror or in a whisper or in the shower or in a shout. I love you, get up, keep going.

I am tired too. It's okay. We will sleep in the car ride over. We will sleep on each other's shoulders. We will sleep upside down and in the laps of new friends and on the bellies of our lovers and in the hands of better tomorrows. We will sleep and we will wake up rested and we will wake up happy and we will wake up home again.

I love you, get up. It's time to write "maybe next time" on our gravesite. It's time to write: it could not kill me, I would not die. It's time to write a love letter to the sun and our one-act play and the history of our keychains. It is time to write a future where despite everything, we are finally warm and safe.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Get up. Keep going. We are going to be okay.

I’m trying so fucking hard and no one sees that. I’m trying so fucking hard to stay alive but my breathing is getting shallow and my heart is beating slower and if I don’t wake up tomorrow just fucking forget about me.

“Trust me when I tell you: The most beautiful eyes have cried the most. The happiest smile was sad all along. & the coldest person felt the most.”

— The Poetic Boy