There’s no one to hold me, pat my head and tell me I’m gunna be ok.


Holy fuck I need to turn my brain off, so fucked up and volatile right now


I shut you out last December I thought for good, to try and fix my life.
But you’ve appeared fondly in my dreams and thoughts out of nowhere and I don’t know how to feel about it.
I’ve never been in a better place since you left than I am right now.
Yet you send my nails back to dig my palms and smash my head into the wall.
My mind, body and soul run wild in the beautiful air while my heart just can’t move.
I’ve tried and looked everywhere to fill the hole or find something new.
But no matter how kind, beautiful, funny, honest, amazing or true they are,
I still find myself looking up at them stars sparkling away,
hoping the sun on the other side of the planet where you are, shines down and reflects your light back off one of them hundred billion, I know I’ll spot you.
It’s like a waiting game with nothing to wait for and no one else playing.


Tear me apart, leave me with nothing

I search for what you have of mine to no avail.
I’d managed to hold you way out of my head for the first time
but you always come back to hollow my palms again
and crash through my dreams.

words and self destruction are all I have left in this meaningless world devoid of answers.

How do we justify our own happiness when it is built on slavery. I can’t.


Every time you touch me

lazypoems:

every imprint of you on my life,
no matter how tiny,
sticks out like scraped knees in summer.
different colour eyes.
the difference of walkers and runners.
stilling shaky hands in skinny thighs.
once noticed,
can be traced back to the equator
you are My
centre,
my.
dividing.
line.

My writing blog



austin:

"what do you wanna be when you grow up?"

rich

^ fuck that. I wanna be surrounded by people that want to make others worlds a better place to live.

(via illbreakthesky)


When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”

When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.

When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”

(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)

When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.

I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.

No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.

I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.

So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:

In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.

r.d. (via vonmoire)

this makes me wanna cry

(via georgialeerose)


the inside of my head is a shit place to be. I get older and things get worse not better.


(via tinkerxbellx)


Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you.
Friedrich Nietzsche (via narabean)

(via georgialeerose)


i love the process of getting to know someone’s face. you have never seen it before. and then in an instance, you have seen it your whole life. you can’t remember a time you when you did not know it.
nayyirah waheed (via nayyirahwaheed)

(via georgialeerose)


we barely raise our hands to defend our principles anymore.merely scratch our impotent heads as we drown in numb, blissful apathy.
heads down,
caught in white knuckle comforts and life long ruts.
we circle onwards, onwards,
ourselves at the fulcrum.


My head feels like shiiiit