CARPE DIEM

The words I couldn't say

If you’re a single lesbian reblog this so I can follow you and message you <3

imthehomoyourmomwarnedyouabout:

ayee

(Source: sydloohoo)

“I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.’”

—   My Heart is Full of Open Windows (Azra T)

(Source: wordsthat-speak, via fee23x)

“I promised myself I wouldn’t do this, but we all make commitments we can’t stay true to for our own good reasons.
Please tell me you don’t think this is a mistake.
Tell me you don’t think of me every morning when you put on that necklace I gave you, and when you make that decision to continue wearing it.
Tell me I’m wrong to think this was the best thing I’ve ever had and you want me away.
And if you can’t tell me these things, then you and I can’t be wrong.
It can’t be wrong to have so many mutual dreams and goals with another human,
even with fear following beside us.
It can’t be wrong to love somebody so much that your hands shake to say it out loud.
I feel lost without you.
I feel broken and incomplete.
Every day is the challenge of not ruining my makeup,
or deciding it’s not worth putting any on because I haven’t stopped crying since you left.
Every day is listening to songs that remind me of you and either smiling as if we’re still okay,
or crying my heart out knowing that we aren’t.
Every day is having no appetite but trying to eat anyway,
as if you would somehow know I was trying to be okay and you’d be proud of me.
Every night is laying curled up crying until my stomach lining feels it’s tearing apart with no sleep.
And in the time I do sleep,
I can’t escape you in my dreams.
But they aren’t dreams,
yet nightmares, because in these dreams you still touch me and love me and fill me,
and I wake up alone and empty.
Tell me I’m wrong to not give up.
Tell me I’m wrong to stay.
If you want me gone for good,
say so.
If you want me here,
don’t let me go another sleepless night.”

—   I miss you more than I miss myself
Katey Chrest (via thinly)

(via infatuatedwithmymisery)

“Mit wie vielen Maedchen schreibst du, waehrend ich auf deine Nachricht warte?”

—   (via schwarzxwelt)

(Source: meeresmaedchen-1904, via stairwayytoheavenn)

“I am slowly
discovering
how to miss you
in ways that keep
me in one piece.”

“I fucking hated what you were doing to me. But more than that, I hate that you knew you were doing it. And that I was letting you.”

—   (via cahlm)

(Source: the-taintedtruth, via thebeachthing)

People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am
is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.
But sometimes
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning
and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up

And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl grey tea makes you miss him so much
you don’t know what to do with your hands.

—   Rosie Scanlan, “On Missing Them” (via oofpoetry)

(via onlyjustabrokensmile)

Three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed.
She tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to.
She opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three.
Now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap.
Inevitably, she asks, and you tell her.

You say: I dated her a while back.
You don’t say: Sometimes, when I’m holding you, I imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume.

You say: She was younger than me.
You don’t say: The sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered.

You say: It’s nothing now.
You don’t say: But it was everything then.

—   Some things are better left unsaid.  (via fawun)

(Source: poppyflowerpoetry, via stairwayytoheavenn)

“I think about you. But I don’t say it anymore.”

—   Marguerite Duras, from Hiroshima, Mon Amour (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via quiet-soul-s)

“Du hast mir gezeigt was Liebe ist, aber auch was es heißt heulend auf dem Boden zu sitzen.”

“It is August, and I have already spent over half the year thinking of you.”

—   

(via zachlilley)

“Picture yourself when you were five. In fact, dig out a photo of little you at that time and tape it to your mirror. How would you treat her, love her, feed her? How would you nurture her if you were the mother of little you? I bet you would protect her fiercely while giving her space to spread her itty-bitty wings. She’d get naps, healthy food, imagination time, and adventures into the wild. If playground bullies hurt her feelings, you’d hug her tears away and give her perspective. When tantrums or meltdowns turned her into a poltergeist, you’d demand a loving time-out in the naughty chair. From this day forward I want you to extend that same compassion to your adult self.”

—   Kris Carr (via howtobefuckingfabulous)

(via jilliancarmela)

“Call your mother. Tell her you love her. Remember you’re the only person who knows what her heart sounds like from the inside.”

—   wow this made me sad. (via stay-ocean-minded)

This is the best thing

(via laurenhooper)

(Source: pobredreamer, via infatuatedwithmymisery)

“and I know I speak like my heart was broken last night
even though it happened last January,
when I thought I was numb from the cold
but I was numb from you
and sometimes everything you left behind cuts into
my tongue and I find myself choking up your name
even though it’s been 3 months since you’ve called
and I’m not sure how your voice still plays in my head
when I can’t even remember how it sounds
and there are scars and bruises all over me that I
could’ve sworn had faded but everyone looks at me
like I’m about to collapse
and sometimes I kiss boys who grab me like they
want to break me and I let them because there’s
nothing left to break
and sometimes they taste like you
and I used to smile like I wasn’t empty
but you’re stuck in my head
and in my heart
and underneath my fingernails
and I’m so sorry but you can’t stay here”

—   I’m a collection of unsaid goodbyes and thrown up 3 AM “I miss you’s” (via extrasad)

(via infatuatedwithmymisery)