It is you. It is fucking you. I cannot describe it anymore, it is you. You are the only one that I will ever want. I belong with you. You are my home. I look at you, and somehow I can see 50 years from now on the front porch of some old house in the middle of nowhere and we’re together. I need you. You are the only thing that matters. You are my good.
“Vincent Van Gogh used to eat yellow paint because he thought it would get the happiness inside him. Many people thought he was mad and stupid for doing so because the paint was toxic, never mind that it was obvious that eating paint couldn’t possible have any direct correlation to one’s happiness, but I never saw that. If you were so unhappy that even the maddest ideas could possible work, like painting the walls of your internal organs yellow, than you are going to do it. It’s really no different than falling in love or taking drugs. There is a greater risk of getting your heart broken or overdosing, but people still do it everyday because there was always that chance it could make things better. Everyone has their yellow paint.”—(via highwayaisle)
Opening up, like really opening up, is so hard. It’s one of the hardest things to do and I’m awful at it. But if you just be patient with me and let me wiggle my way out, I’ll be there. I’ll be there 110% and I won’t hold anything back. So just wait for me. Wait.
I want a night with you. I want to close the curtains. I want to lay in bed and feel you breathing. I want the only noise to be my inhale replying to your exhale. I want to trace my fingers along every line and curve of your back. I want to feel your face buried into my neck. I want to lay like this and feel every worry melt the same way that I melt when I am with you.
Growing up, my mother taught me to never trust a soul more than I trusted myself. She imprinted lesson plans onto the backs of my eyelids which taught me that when the world had pushed me down, I should find the strength to get back up again. And because of this, I’ve always been the one who tried to be strong (even when I wasn’t) and stand on my own two feet. But the minute I saw you, truly saw you, I forgot how to work the muscles in my legs, unsure of how I should properly place them so that I didn’t fall flat on my face.
My mother never taught me what to do with my hands and she never taught me how to remember my back bone when remembering my heart. I became clay in your hands, just waiting for you to touch me, to mold me, to love me. My mother warned me against this, but she never knew you, she never saw your cracked ribs and rough hands and wished to dig deeper. You have stardust in your eyes, let’s make a supernova, a constellation, a stairway to the moon.
They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and it will take a long journey to reach there. But the specks in your iris form intricate galaxies and I’m almost positive that I will get lost in them before I make much progress. My mother’s voice still roars in my mind, warning me to take heed and guard my heart from anyone with a smile that was too beautiful. So, she certainly couldn’t foresee that I would willingly pluck my heart from my chest and present it in your hands, my aorta and vena cava tied together in a bow.
My mother used to take photos of the night sky, because she knew that goodness is only seen in sunlight and terror is only displayed when everything goes quiet; I think she was begging to find something that frightened her. So when you stood in front of me, my heart in your hands, and you did not speak, I knew my mother was taking pictures of you in the night sky - how beautiful, how terrifying you are displayed above me.
And here I stand, ready to take terror’s hand into mine
and there you stand, stained with my blood, but so very beautiful.
“I’m in love with you. Yeah, it’s that bad. You’re so beautiful to me. Shut up, let me tell you, let me. Every time I look at your face, or even remember it, it wrecks me. And the way you are with me, and you’re just fun and you shit all over me and you make fun of me and you’re real. I don’t have enough time in any day, to think about you enough. I feel like I’m gonna live a thousand years cause that’s how long it’s gonna take me to have one thought about you, which is that I’m crazy about you. I don’t wanna be with anybody else. I don’t. I really don’t. I don’t think about women anymore. I think about you. I had a dream the other night that you and I were on a train. We were on this train and you were holding my hand. That’s the whole dream, you were holding my hand and I felt you holding my hand. I woke up and I couldn’t believe it wasn’t real. I’m sick in love with you. It’s like a condition, it’s like polio. I feel like I’m gonna die if i can’t be with you and I can’t be with you, so I’m gonna die and I don’t care cause I was brought into existence to know you, and that’s enough. The idea that you would want me back? It’s like, greedy.”—Louis CK (via iamdiabetic)
“I want to be around people that do things. I don’t want to be around people anymore that judge or talk about what people do. I want to be around people that dream and support and do things.”—Amy Poehler (via endangerment)
I can only date someone who values me and doesn’t treat me like I’m disposable and easily replaceable. I don’t want to be treated like I’m just another girl or like at some point you’re going to get tired of me and say, “welp! It’s been fun but I’m ready to try that girl over there and then another after her.” Stability is important to me. I don’t want to feel unsure about us. I want to feel secure.
Seriously like put a baby inside me or leave me alone