At least then I would know it meant something.
At least then I would know I mattered.
If he could hate me, I would know that I was etched into the fabric of him. I would be indelible. It would be loud and chaotic and alive.
I should be more than a fading memory. More than a vague twinge too fleeting to masquerade as regret.
I would hate him if I could. If I didn’t remember the way it felt when his hazel eyes looked at me like I was the only person in the room. If I didn’t remember the urgency of his fingers and palms. If I could remember July.
I wish he hated me because I need him to.
I need to feel like more than just “hello” and “goodbye.”
If he hated me, I could convince myself that it felt like love.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned while dating people in my 20s it’s that guys like it when girls are mean to them and girls like it when guys are mean to them and everyone is insanely cruel to everyone and this entire generation will die out alone because no one knows how to treat anyone with an ounce of human respect or empathy but pet sales are skyrocketing and everyone is taking hikes and getting some great exercise of all their self-restraint by not walking straight off the sides of mountains.
Would ‘sorry’ have made any difference? Does it ever? It’s just a word. One word against a thousand actions.
Sarah Ockler (via 99lions)
Against the actions.
Go read this.
CS Lewis: To love at all
I love this :) <3
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There is no shame in being hungry for another person. There is no shame in wanting very much to share your life with somebody.
— Augusten Burroughs (via blua)
I wonder if you know yet that you’ll leave me. That you
are a child playing with matches and I have a paper body.
You will meet a girl with a softer voice and stronger arms and she
will not have violent secrets or an affection for red wine or eyes
that never stay dry. You will fall into her bed and I’ll go back
to spending Friday nights with boys who never learn my last name.
I have chased off every fool who has tried to sleep beside me
You think it’s romantic to fuck the girl who writes poems about you.
You think I’ll understand your sadness because I live inside my own.
But I will show up at your door at 2 am, wild-eyed and sleepless.
and try and find some semblance of peace in your breastbone
and you will not let me in. You will tell me to go home.
— (via clementinevonradics)
If someone bullies you or doesn’t like you because he or she thinks you have shitty taste in clothes or sexual orientation or whatever it is, according to the laws of tit-for-motherfucking-tat, you have the right to dislike that person for having shitty taste in behaving like a decent human being.
These people are demonstrating their own poor judgement. Much like you shouldn’t get in cars driven by drunken idiots, how you think about yourself should not be based on the opinions of people who broadcast their inability to think.
We do not take diamonds to toddlers for appraisal. You are a gem. You must not allow unqualified jackasses to determine your value.