When a boy tells you he loves you, doubt him. Narrow your eyes and look at him with suspicion. Stop talking to him for three days and stop answering his texts. See if he grows tired of you. Or bored. If you find him making a phone out of tin cans and string, that means he’s trying.
On your first date, wear a lace bra and see-through shirt and see if he treats you like a body instead of a person. See if he can even look you in the eyes. See if he talks more than he listens.
Take him to a bar and watch what he does when he thinks you aren’t looking. See if his eyes undress every saint and sinner in the room.
See how patient he is. Use your lips and your hips and your hands. Bring him within an inch of lust and take it away. See how he responds.
When a boy tells you he loves you, ask him how much. If he tells you in texts of size 12-point font, ask him to tell you again in person because you’ll want to remember this moment. You’ll want to know how his voice falters and shakes, how he fumbles for words. You’ll want to remember the exact rhythm of his heaving chest when he tries to explain that pieces of you have made a home in his lungs.
And so if he arrives at your door, and throws the words in your face, deadpan, you’ll know that not even God could bring them back to life.
"When a Boy Tells You He Loves You" (via lamegrownup)
(Source: typewriterdaily, via yesbloodismyink)
Though I’m lonely and single, I can’t stop writing love poems. I talk to my English professor about this and he says, Wait, you’re writing? Yes, I say. So what’s the problem, he asks as he takes a sip of his coffee. I keep writing about emotions that aren’t relevant to me, I explain again. Oh, and? And it’s making me feel lonely, I say. Ah, loneliness. He pauses to scratch his beard. You shouldn’t feel lonely as long as you’re writing. The only friend a writer needs is their work. It can’t be that simple, I whisper. Of course it’s that simple, he smiles, proud of himself for believing he has comforted me. I thank him and leave his office.
I take his advice and spend the next three months holed up in my room, scribbling furiously. I turn down my friends’ invitations and tell my family I’m too sick to join them for dinner. I take my meals by my computer, where a manuscript is half-typed, waiting to be completed.
I write a story about a girl who’s missing her right hand. She goes through life too ashamed of her own deformity to introduce herself to strangers. I write about a family that forgets their dog on a camping trip. I write about a son who swallows a mirror in an attempt to understand his insides. It ends with him spitting out bloody shards of glass. I write about the hole in my stomach I keep swallowing ink to fill and wake up in the middle of the night spewing words.
I talk to my mother about this. She is vacuuming and has to turn off the machine each time I say something. “Have you tried writing relatable characters?” she asks. Yes, I say. Yes, I have tried. She suggests I quit trying so hard. She says loneliness is a state of mind. I ask her how you move out of that state. She says, Aw, honey, let me finish this floor, okay?
I go to my best friend. She asks me if I’m depressed. I tell her, no, I don’t think so. How can I tell? She says she hasn’t seen me in months. I apologize and tell her I’ve been focusing on my work. She says, what work? You just said you can’t write anything good. I tell her she’s right. She tells me she’s afraid of losing me, that I look thinner and like I haven’t been getting enough sleep. We make plans to go out to dinner the next week.
I stop writing. I tell myself that it’s made me a bad friend, a bad daughter, a bad girlfriend. I remember what my ex said before he broke up with me: You’re only lonely because you want to be.
I spend weeks with a smile plastered on my face and my fingers twitching whenever they see a pen. It is not easy to wean myself off of words. I have to avoid libraries, bookstores, and Literature classes. One day I see my old English teacher and he asks how my writing’s doing. I tell him I’ve given it up. He says, well that’s not what I wanted to inspire. Don’t you miss it? Yeah, I say. I do. But I don’t think it misses me.
In a museum gift shop, an old man sees me fondling the journals. Do you like to write?, he asks. I hesitate before replying, I used to, but I stopped. Why?, he demands. Everything I wrote was boring, I say. Who told you that? He looks at me curiously, ready to punch whoever put me down. No one really. I just felt like it was. He hands me a journal and says, You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.
I sit in bed and ask myself why a person would want to be lonely. I pour over the work of my favorite authors, searching for an answer. They tell me that loneliness is an art. They tell me being lonely allows you to feel more. They tell me, we understand, we were lonely too.
Late at night, I find myself hunched over my desk, shaking out sonnets. I write prose. I write poems. I write silly rhymes and love letters and long odes. I write until the sun rises and I pass out on piles of paper, my mouth hanging open. The next day I read it all and three fourths of it is about love. I don’t care. I show my mom and she says, that’s great. I’m glad you’re doing what you love again.
I realize the words don’t mind if I’m lonely. They’re not demanding a reason, they’re helping me find one. And I don’t need to be in love to write about it. I just need to write.
Lessons Writing Taught Me About Love and Loneliness | Lora Mathis (via de-mitasse)
(Source: lora-mathis, via de-mitasse)
And kid, you’ve got to love yourself. You’ve got wake up at four in the morning, brew black coffee, and stare at the birds drowning in the darkness of the dawn. You’ve got to sit next to the man at the train station who’s reading your favorite book and start a conversation. You’ve got to come home after a bad day and burn your skin from a shower. Then you’ve got to wash all your sheets until they smell of lemon detergent you bought for four dollars at the local grocery store. You’ve got to stop taking everything so goddam personally. You are not the moon kissing the black sky. You’ve got to compliment someones crooked brows at an art fair and tell them that their eyes remind you of green swimming pools in mid July. You’ve got to stop letting yourself get upset about things that won’t matter in two years. Sleep in on Saturday mornings and wake yourself up early on Sunday. You’ve got to stop worrying about what you’re going to tell her when she finds out. You’ve got to stop over thinking why he stopped caring about you over six months ago. You’ve got to stop asking everyone for their opinions. Fuck it. Love yourself, kiddo. You’ve got to love yourself.
Unknown (via crystallized-teardrops)
this will always be my most favorite post on tumblr
(Source: irynka, via weirdjabi)
You can talk with someone for years, everyday, and still, it won’t mean as much as what you can have when you sit in front of someone, not saying a word, yet you feel that person with your heart, you feel like you have known the person for forever…. connections are made with the heart, not the tongue.
C. JoyBell C. (via khadlja)
(Source: observando, via khadlja)
Even if everything hadn’t happened the way it did, that child part of me would still have disappeared. Imperceptibly over time. I just got too old, too fast. All at once.
Katja Millay, The Sea of Tranquility (via khadlja)
love has never been about physical appearance that’s why some people fall in love with people who live half way across the world. Love is and has always been two souls connecting and when your souls connect all of a sudden his eyes are brighter than the stars and her smile resembles the crescent of the moon.
philosophy. (via khadlja)
(Source: thelitgeek, via khadlja)