They always knew where it hurt.
I like people with gruff voices and rough hands and faces like a road map that shows how to find my way back to their heart if I ever get lost. I couldn’t fall in love with someone who looks like they haven’t even thought about what it is like to fight a war. I want someone who has battle plans, who knows when to raise the white flag, and, most of all, when to go charging forward, guns blazing, and singing a victory song.
There are so many things I want from someone, things I am finally learning to ask for, and the most important one is to be conquered, to have my walls demolished into piles of rubble, and to have my heart exposed—finally set free.
I’m ready to stop letting life
happen to me-
ready to be the thing
to the world.
I am going to live a life
where you’ll never be able
who I am.
This is not about
I didn’t love you
or wide enough
or deep enough
I just want you to learn
that the true meaning
is having to listen
to the way other people
won’t stop saying
I no longer remember
Seeing someone read a book you love is seeing a book recommend a person.
I need a haircut and a sandwich. #crangry
It is 1:11 PM and I am still in bed.
I feel so conflicted about it.
I don’t think there is anything better in life than meeting someone nice and getting to know them and making a friend— connecting with another person in tiny, arbitrary ways like your favorite kind of food or how much you love a certain movie.
It’s like a match has been lit in the center of your stomach and your whole body just glows, glows, glows.
our #girlgang has officially started. (at Chuy’s)
The truth is that the more intimately you know someone, the more clearly you’ll see their flaws. That’s just the way it is. This is why marriages fail, why children are abandoned, why friendships don’t last. You might think you love someone until you see the way they act when they’re out of money or under pressure or hungry, for goodness’ sake. Love is something different. Love is choosing to serve someone and be with someone in spite of their filthy heart. Love is patient and kind, love is deliberate. Love is hard. Love is pain and sacrifice, it’s seeing the darkness in another person and defying the impulse to jump ship.
I wish my arms
Even if you were here
you wouldn’t ever
Only two kinds of people have ever held me:
the ones who think I am nothing but
a sack of calloused skin filled with
broken bones and
the ones who think I am nothing but
a corpse waiting to be brought back to life.
Somewhere between the age of 9 and 67
people start to translate “I love you” into
"I need you to save me."
Even though the words never change.
Love does not fix broken things or
bring the dying back from the light—
it is not a defibrillator charged to 360,
and my heart is not a cast meant to hold in
all of your shattered pieces until they are whole.
Only two kinds of people have held me:
the ones who always thought I should
live with what love they gave me
the ones who always thought I would
stick around even when they didn’t give me
anything at all.
Not every bruised heart is a broken wing.
Not every splintered tree dies,
and even sad girls like me eventually learn
how to patch themselves up without help
and finally fly away.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe I lived through loving him for so long.
“Don’t mind me, I’m just writing about people who don’t love me anymore and looking for a baby jean jacket so I can cut the sleeves off to make a cool vest for my dog.”
How you make others feel about themselves says a lot about you.
He puts his hands up into your hair. He tugs at the roots, presses his lips against the edge of your ear, whispers into your skin the lyrics to a song that is about love and being honest and how things are better when you are young and new and full of hope. He inhales your scalp, fills his lungs with you, makes your fingers tremble with anticipation.
Then finally, he pulls his lips to yours, holds you captive with his mouth. You close your eyes and you hold the back of his neck, afraid that if you don’t that you will melt right into the ground. He smells like winter—cold and crisp and delicate. You feel his mouth against your cheek, your jaw, your neck. He presses his fingers into your ribs. He plays your torso like a piano, holds on to you like he is a balloon about to fly away.
Then he is gone and it is morning and you wake up wiping your mouth, clutching your heart, smelling your skin for traces of him—unsure of who he is, who he was, who he might be.
You wake up every morning with the idea of being held, of being kissed, burning under your skin. You fall asleep every night wondering if tonight you will dream of a future someone or if you are forever destined to spend your nights alone—spend your nights kissing ghosts who will never hold you and who you will never get the chance to know.