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Sometimes it feels better not to talk at all about anything to anyone.

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Propaganda I will Always keep falling for "not having to ask"

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somewhere between too much and not enough

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You don't get it do you? I lost my home when I lost you and ever since then I haven't known how to be the same anymore.

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"You’re so kind," they say, and somewhere inside me, the demon exhales a laugh that rattles my ribs. "Kind?" he echoes, like it’s the cruelest joke he’s ever heard. "Are you kind?" he asks again daring me to lie. I shake my head, screaming silently into the hollows of myself, I am not. I am not. I am not. But he just keeps laughing because he knows. Don’t call me kind. Don’t offer me a crown I cannot wear. Kindness is a language I was never taught. What is kindness, when I’ve never even been soft with myself? When someone calls me kind, I flinch because maybe they hate me, but are too gentle to say so. Maybe “kind” is just a mask they place over a face they cannot bear to look at. It haunts me this word, this title, like a borrowed coat that never fits. How can you call a storm "kind"? How can you look at a ruin and tell it it looks like home? If you think I’m kind tell me where you saw it. Point to it. Show me the part of me that hasn’t burned. Because I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything, except this slow, sharp ache inside my bones. This tiredness. This crawling, creeping wish to disappear that follows me from bed to mirror to door and back again So no... Don’t call me kind. Don’t call me sweet, or gentle, or good. Don’t confuse the quiet in me for compassion. I am not kindness. I am a creature of mirrors and masks, a monster in borrowed skin. A storm pretending to be still. The devil in me wears my voice like velvet, wraps lies in silk and hands them to you as if they were flowers. He doesn’t love he calculates. He doesn’t care he convinces. This soul you think is tender is nothing but smoke and shadow, built on illusion, held together by practiced smiles and reflex apologies. You say I’m kind but that’s just the trick of the light. It’s how I’ve survived: by being what you need, not what I am. Inside me is ash. Inside me is machinery, not mercy. Inside me is a tired voice that stopped believing in softness a long time ago. So don’t call me kind. Not when the only thing I’ve ever mastered is how to seem like I care. Because I don’t. I can’t. Not really. Not anymore.

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Alcohol is cool but have you ever received an angry love confession in the rain?

Me neither, pass the bottle.

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bhook lagi

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What if we rewrite the stars

Say you were made to be mine.

Nothing could keep us apart,

Cause you'll be the one I was meant to find.

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The one who falls in love first will always be the one at disadvantage.

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Did I ruin your perception of me?

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destined to chase sunsets in different skies.

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Ppl are poison, don't get attached!!🌻🥰

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— josé olivarez // natalie diaz

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i’m either overly detached or way too attached. there’s no in between

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us when ?