I Don’t Believe That The Love Between Eva And I Is Coincidence. In This Big, Big Universe, We Happened

Love is admitting I’m human but hey, so are you and we’re doing our best and hoping our best is enough. Love is a coffee mug accompanied with an apology and a tight hug. Love is asleep on the couch, love plays way too many video games, love needs reassurance, love is messy, disorganised, flawed, irritating. Love is human.

Ladurée Saint Honore rose framboise

summer in the city drenches everything in this unbearable sticky heat,

I am here in bed,

thinking about my blue eyed boy:

the sunlight washing over anything,

a daydream in reality,

all this harshness dipped in gold.

isn’t life just misery. and mortality. and suffering.

isn’t this mangled body so tired of dragging itself forward,

waiting for the next trauma to almost-cripple it.

but like the sunlight my blue eyed boy pours his warmth over everything,

my own pocket of the galaxy,

and his sun rays touch me like nothing else has ever touched me before.

summer sticks to him,

summer sticks to me.

and all this sweaty passion is

so strong I feel it from the other side of the universe.

breaking breaking breaking

I ask for forgiveness,

for a sin I haven’t committed.

bow to the pillar of greatness or madness or whatever there is.

hospital bed number 5,

you’re not here. you’re not here. you’re not here.

(I don’t want you to be).

suicide wraps it’s fingers around my neck and whispers sweet nothings,

flashes of blood and the noose and the pills the rush and the silence

the silence the silence the silence the sil

(I can’t breathe)

i close my eyes and wait and wait and wait

it’ll pass, I tell myself, just breathe and let it be.

I hope you find yourself whoever you are

I hope you listen to music and fall in love and go dancing

find your happy ever after,

with ur messy hair and teary eyes

hospital bed number 5.

a conversation with sappho

childhood trauma culture is constantly seeking validation because no matter how many times it is confirmed that you were abused, you can’t help but feel like a fake because others have had it “worse” than you or the abuse wasn’t “bad” enough

Lovers,Woodstock,1969.

Hozier, “As It Was”, Wasteland, Baby!

just to be clear, you can do this too

trigger warning: self harm

it’s been a year since I last hurt myself, an addiction that took all my willpower to overcome. I know I can fashion words into something beautiful but there was nothing pretty about all that self-hatred, all that anger, loss and pain. all that pain coiled in my stomach, gnawing at me from the inside. there was absolutely nothing beautiful about scarring a body that works so hard to keep going. I can’t make this beautiful or romantic or wistful. but it’s over now. I can breathe. I just want to let that fact be.