delicatepoetry
When he screamed in my face and pushed me against his car that night, he told me I was worthless but I was the one to say sorry. Over and over again, I was sorry. When he left me standing in the parking lot by my house I could do nothing but hate myself for making him leave me. When I was a little girl it was a mistake of trusting a man that I barely knew, just because he was my own blood. His evil eyes made his way up my dress along with his hands, and ever since then I don’t think I could lose my virginity without crying into the man I love’s chest. When I tell someone how I’m feeling inside, I always let the word, sorry slip out when I’m finished. I feel like I am dumping my emotion onto their chest and suffocating them like it suffocates me. Then they end up getting upset with me, because I offend them when I apologize. At fifteen a boy kissed me like he loved me, and the next day he never called me back or answered my texts. I couldn’t help but think maybe I fucked it up somehow, maybe when I talked about heaven and dying it turned him off. Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with it. He didn’t want to deal with me. The last text I sent him was, “sorry.” When my mother is angry she tends to raise her voice and say things “she doesn’t mean.” I can’t help but believe her when she calls me crazy, and I can’t help but think that maybe my dad drinks so much because he hates his life. I can’t help but think maybe it’s because of me, do I ask for too much? Is it because I’m always sad? Am I not good enough, what did I do? The love of my life is the most amazing man in the world yet when his voice gets quiet on the phone I can’t help but question if he’s okay because I always feel like I’m doing something wrong. I always ask over and over, if he loves me because I need the reassurance that I’m not some crazy bitch. When my friend texts me and I don’t respond for a few hours I am afraid she will think it’s because I don’t care but in reality it’s because I can’t think of anything to talk about when my mind is filled with this negativity about myself. I just always feel like I am doing wrong. I am wrong, I am damaged, by other people’s mistakes, I take credit for. That’s what I do wrong..
i.c. // I need to stop being sorry (via delicatepoetry)
delicatepoetry

i. I think the gloomy clouds and rain are more beautiful than the shining sun. I think that the sound of the sky’s tears hitting the ground is the most peaceful noise to listen to. A part of my soul feels fresh and complete when I breathe in the autumn air on an October morning. I think that the most beautiful season is the season of death, when the leaves fall down and die, when the world changes colors. Death brings new life, it makes room for more.

ii. One day I was sitting in a coffee shop and on the table was a stained circle from a mug. I stopped and traced the perfect sphere with my finger and for a moment my mind stood still. I was peaceful for a few seconds. The waiter apologized and handed me a coaster and I said it was fine, it was fine. I was fine because I had stopped thinking for a god damn second.

iii. In my grandmother’s garden there are more roses than daisies, I guess people don’t like them very much. Yet I do, because they remind me of innocence. They remind me of being a little girl and picking petals, “he loves me,” “he loves me not.” I’m happy he didn’t love me, because I don’t even love myself.

iv. To me there is something raw about sadness, something that exposes the real us. Only when we cry and scream our emotions are finally being let out of the bottle. I’ve realized that humans are most beautiful when they cry, because it’s when they’re stripped to the core. Sometimes it’s okay to find beauty in a person with a frown, not only when it’s just upside down.

v. When I see someone who wears a sweater even when it’s 90 degrees out I start to feel not so alone. I look for a chance to catch a glimpse at their wrist to see if I find the scars that look like mine. I tend to do this all the time, maybe it’s my way of reassuring myself that I am not the only one going through this, that maybe I will be okay one day. There’s a chance.

vi. I always think that when they look at you for too long, or you catch them staring at you, they’re looking at flaws. When I see him staring at my lips I wonder if there’s something in my teeth so I stop talking so much, and when he grabs my waist I’m afraid the distance between his hands will be too much of a gap for his liking. He told me that there’s beautiful girls all over the world but I’m his favorite, I still watch his eyes when a girl walks by.

vii. My mother has called me crazy too many times to count. I sometimes still sit in my room and wonder if I really am, because most the time I want to jump off a cliff and only “crazy people” do that right? At least that’s what most people say, and I heard that crazy people don’t even consider themselves crazy, so maybe I’m not? Maybe I’m just me, and there’s something wrong… with just being me..

i.c. // I read into things, too much. (via delicatepoetry)
delicatepoetry
I know deep inside, I am not the child my parents wanted. I can tell by the way they look into my eyes, because theirs glaze over, and by the way they don’t take anything I say too seriously. I can tell by the way they ask me about my future, and when I say, “I’m not sure but,” they lose interest in knowing. I can tell when they read the newspaper and see all the successful honor students at my school, they sigh, because my name isn’t printed in ink on the list. I feel like when I talk, they don’t really listen, because if they did, they would read between the lines and realize I wanted to kill myself a hundred times. I feel like when I’m upset I can no longer show emotion, because my mother has called me lazy too many times, and my dad has shook his head once too many. I feel like when I’m sitting on the couch when I get home from school, they are disgusted because I should be “doing something more productive.” So I don’t even feel like being comfortable in my own home anymore. I feel like I have to hide away in my room, because when I’m around them we don’t talk much anyways. I feel like I’m just another tab on their bill, especially when all they talk about is how they’re low on money and make it feel like it’s my fault. It’s just, I think they wanted someone more, someone better. I think they wanted a smart kid, with a great passion for life, who is nothing but happy, busy, talented, outgoing. They wanted someone who would for sure succeed more than they did in life, someone who could assure them assistance in their older years. But they got me, the kid who’s shy, the one who gets okay grades, the kid that doesn’t have many friends, the kid who’s sad most the time, the kid who has secretly attempted suicide. The kid who’s just another kid, not the kid who’s nothing like me. I’m sorry.
i.c. // “A Hidden Apology to My Parents”  (via delicatepoetry)
riahhenderson

Muggles are not able to REBLOG this.

b3k4hhh:

pierce-the-tony:

wish-iwerent-here:

rawrawrawrimmahobo:

watchtheskytonight:

wicked-literature:

REBLOG this to prove you are not a Muggle.

image

my reblog button fucked up and i almost had a heart attack

I did it in the first try.

OH YEAH

OH MY GOD.

MY COMPUTER BROWSER FROZE AND I DIDN’T REALIZE IT. I COULDN’T BREATHE.

JESUS.

But the lack of notes truly worries me

Bam.

J

My mouse accidently slid off of the button and I was like, “dkfsafsa”

BAM. Not a muggle.

I knew my letter got lost!!