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Sometimes I don't feel like I deserve things. A lot of the time I don't.

I look around at all I have, good and bad, and think, how did something out there think I was important enough to be given consciousness, to be given life? Who loved me first, loved me enough to place me here?

It's a slow process of feeling worthy, of feeling like I'm enough to fill this space, but I can start by having gratitude, and it's so important to me that I've been here, experienced the things I have, cherished the good and felt pain from the bad, because I am alive.

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Perfect.

You must be

Perfect.

They are so much better than you,

Perfect.

You may have survived, but the scars fade with the memories.

They are so faint and quiet now, as though you aren't still experiencing the pain over

And over

And over again.

You long to bring the scars back, to scream

"I am here too, I am hurt"

But you must be

perfect.

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The ocean.

A field of landmine, expansive and dangerous.

It stretches on,

And on,

And on.

My mind is the ocean.

Each wave, each drop,

Each memory that lie dormant in it's depths.

My mind is the ocean, an ocean of death.

It plays tragedy relentlessly, free and unmuted.

But children play along the shores, laughing so innocent, picking up each shattered shell of my

death ocean.

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It sneaks in, so diligently. Knows exactly where to go, what to do.

It's like the howling wind, threatening to uproot me from reality and take me to the past, or the freezing air of icy climates, crawling from the tip of my nose into my heart.

I don't understand, I can't understand.

Perhaps I'm not supposed to understand.

But I understand that it hurts, that something dark, disgusting, creeps into my head as I try to sleep, collecting all the pain life has provoked to perform a bloody show for me.

I do not surrender to the sounds of crossfire or cough on cigarette smoke, I am strong, I am strong,

I am strong.

The flashes of images and itches of pain will not best me, I will not give under this pressure, will not fall between the cracks of my brain.

Yet my bleary, bloodshot eyes still catch the waking sun, and the monster in my memories slithers away before it can be burned. Before I can kill it.

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I wanna throw this stupid scale at a wall, I was staying around 154 but I get down with my shit legs for two days and I'm 156 now :/

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“You will be too much for some people. Those aren’t your people.”

— Unknown

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Physical touch/intimacy as a love language isn’t just sex. It’s their hand resting on your leg during conversation. It’s being held in their arms and listening to their heart beat. Holding hands. Back massages. Their hands in your hair. It’s about connecting and communicating love with your bodies.

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To the charitable,

What does it mean to give?

Does it mean another chance,

A moment of hope so previously small,

Another day that someone can live?

Many of us have so little,

Some days we barely make it through,

But then we’re graced by your charity,

And when we receive, we also accept a piece of you too.

I wouldn’t be here without it,

The simple kindness of strangers,

Perhaps I should call you family,

And together we may brave the world’s dangers.

Though I have nothing to give in return,

I hope you accept this prayer,

The promised kingdom was made for people like you,

And I hope that I’ll meet you there.

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i only wish you clear skies, tea and milk and coffee and juice, soft and clean hair, comfortable clothing and shoes, tasteful meals and snacks, green grass and colourful flowers, beautiful music, caring and funny friends, wonderful days and weeks and months and years

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i love hearing people say goodbye to each other on the street so much! have a good night! take care! text me when you’re home! see you tomorrow! i love you!

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"It would appear that I love you a lot but I can assure you that I love you much more than that.."

I mean.. I love you a lot but a lot more than you think - eUë

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"I could love you well into the next century, there's not even a question in my mind.."

I could love you for a hundred millennia - eUë

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“this is the way the world ends; not with a whimper but a word”

— betsy warland, Serpent Write

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Makes velociraptor noises as a sign of affection