( a more perfect 82 )

This is because I need to speak my words out loud when I think them, and because I should be less afraid that you will hate what I have to say.

I am tired of playing guessing games, but you speak languages of love that I am not fluent in. I want to learn your dialects; show me what secret buttons I need to press to make you listen, because this is what I have to tell you:

You make me feel like I’m on top of the world, but I’m falling off mountains when I think my feelings are suffocating you. I think I can be your breath of fresh air. I want to help you see that not so much of the world is as toxic as you think. But am I making it worse? Am I poison to everything I touch, even if my hands haven’t held yours in the longest time? It’s hard to tell what you’re thinking when all I get is signals I can’t read.

If you kiss me, will it teach me how to speak your language? Because even if it doesn’t, kiss me anyway. Your lips are sweet against mine when you tell me you want me, and still my throat burns bitter when I don’t think you care.

But kiss me again. I’m not tired of trying to understand what you taste like.

(x). (via r-elentless)

In fact a mature person does not fall in love, he rises in love. The word ’fall’ is not right. Only immature people fall; they stumble and fall down in love. Somehow they were managing and standing. They cannot manage and they cannot stand – they find a woman and they are gone, they find a man and they are gone. They were always ready to fall on the ground and to creep. They don’t have the backbone, the spine; they don’t have that integrity to stand alone.
A mature person has the integrity to be alone. And when a mature person gives love, he gives without any strings attached to it: he simply gives. And when a mature person gives love, he feels grateful that you have accepted his love, not vice versa. He does not expect you to be thankful for it – no, not at all, he does not even need your thanks. He thanks you for accepting his love. And when two mature persons are in love, one of the greatest paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone; they are together so much so that they are almost one. But their oneness does not destroy their individuality, in fact, it enhances it: they become more individual.

Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. How can you dominate the person you love? Just think over it. Domination is a sort of hatred, anger, enmity. How can you think of dominating a person you love? You would love to see the person totally free, independent; you will give him more individuality. That’s why I call it the greatest paradox: they are together so much so that they are almost one, but still in that oneness they are individuals. Their individualities are not effaced – they have become more enhanced. The other has enriched them as far as their freedom is concerned.

Immature people falling in love destroy each other’s freedom, create a bondage, make a prison. Mature persons in love help each other to be free; they help each other to destroy all sorts of bondages. And when love flows with freedom there is beauty. When love flows with dependence there is ugliness.

— Osho (via thatkindofwoman)

please don’t tell me I’m beautiful
because when you leave I will let the tracks of my tears stain my face for so long they will bear holes in my cheeks
and I will sit in front of a mirror and draw on it with lipstick all the features you loved but I now loathe
please don’t tell me you get lost in my eyes
because then I will have to dig them slowly out of their sockets and throw them in the ocean so I don’t drown in them
don’t tell me you love kissing every inch of my body
for then I will have to place an X on every space until I am covered in marks and no one else may ever kiss me where your lips touched that X
please don’t hold me too tightly
for when you’re gone I might have to wrap tape around all my limbs to remember what it felt like to not fall apart
don’t cook for me
even if it’s my favourite: grilled cheese
because when you disappear so will my appetite and my palette
don’t tell me you love my new tattoo because instead of a heartbeat I’ll see your name next to my heart;
the sharp and blunt sound of it causing irregularity in my rhythm
don’t tell me you dream of me
because when you’ve left I will try and sleep forever so maybe I can find you on a school bus or an amusement park in my dreams;
you’ll become a monkey
- mon petit singe -
don’t send me pictures of your face in a content expression
because it is tattooed on my brain and when you choose to go it will be a slideshow of your face gliding its way in front of my eyes
I wish you wouldn’t tell me you want me
because as soon as you said that
I wrote letters with all my stories and sent them floating to you on the lake you go to every night
and I documented my face in all of its varying emotions to assure you that sometimes you may not “want me”
and I called you – long distance;
the space stretched over miles –
while you were watching planes land
and with every word I said I felt like I was nosediving on that plane
I’m stretching my arm so far I can feel my bone separating from my muscle,
expanding across the distance to touch yours
even if I only feel your fingertips
I want to graze them;
feel the spark,
because when we met that spark was dancing around us,
taunting us, breathing us in, zipping past our faces
and I thought you wouldn’t kiss me
I thought maybe your face wouldn’t mould against mine
and I was foolish to think that this was what I had dreamt of
but you asked to kiss me
and when you did the reverb made me lose all thoughts;
I was emancipated from thinking
– from thinking
but caution:
please beware,
if you place a thought into my mind it grows roots and sprouts and branches and the leaves drift to the base of my skull
and I am filled with them:
you coming to me
you staying with me
you holding me
the branches grow stronger,
critters stay in there from the past
the birds carry the old memories and sit dangling on the tree,
bearing them;
new and old,
beware my thoughts
caution: do not read
but although I place this disclaimer,
I want you to rake the leaves and climb the branches
and water the roots
and sit by the trunk
and read the book of my thoughts
to absorb all my information, acknowledgments and table of contents
don’t flip through:
but beware:
do not plagiarize them to say to another
and don’t copy them word for word
and please don’t highlight them
my leaves are falling around you
smell the bark
and breathe me in.


You look healthy.

And by that I don’t mean you look fat.
I mean your face isn’t grey any more, the circles under your eyes aren’t so dark. Your lips aren’t cracked and dry and your hair isn’t thinning and brittle. I mean you seem more focused when I talk to you, You actually look at me and listen rather than being so unable to stay still or think about anything other than your illness that your eyes dart around the room and you nod manically the whole time I’m speaking. You seem calmer, stiller, quieter. You’re easier to have a joke with and you take things on board much more than you used to.
I mean you laugh now, you’re less serious. There’s life about you, it’s in your eyes and your smile, it’s in the way you speak and even in the way you go about your daily tasks. 

You look healthy. You look happy. It really, really suits you.

— Really needed to post this right now. This is the only thing that ever helps me get even a little bit into wise mind about how I look. (via foreveralotus)
"The day I stopped
checking on you was
the day I finally ended
an unwritten chapter.

I will look back on
your pages with pride.
Thank for gracing me
with the knowledge that
I can survive after you."
"I am complicated.
half of my poems
are warning people not to get close to me
and the other half
are begging them to come near.
I am not simple.
I am not the kind of person you fall in love with.
Please, love me."



Artist on tumblr - Ricardo Bouyett is a 21-year-old photographer from Chicago, Illinois.

I derive inspiration from life, and I don’t mean that in an avant-garde romantic way at all. I mean that I play witness to many different forms of art and expression that I feel compelled to pay tribute to these varying beauties by creating portraits that communicate identity, love, loss, and life. I tend to rely a lot on music, dance, and poetry 

via interwiev for lostfreedommagazine.com


"Because paper has more patience than people."
— Anne Frank (via sunst0ne)
a Site

a wall has been erected in front of me
“new construction, do not pass”
right now it is made of bricks and mortar,
but in the past it was made of wood and bamboo
I have slaved away, day and night building this wall,
a barrier,
in front of me
because I would rather look at bricks than my own reflection
this wall protects me from my greatest fear, which just so happens to be myself
myself, particularly, in love
I spent months constructing this wall
slathering between the cracks all the food I haven’t eaten
painting on all the brick the words I should have said
and tacking pictures of myself in different positions of aching:
curled beneath blue sheets,
inhaling scents of a ratty sweater,
and so this wall is a reminder of who I become when I fall in love
and I have been walking around, behind this wall, with contempt
with ease
because I can laugh and engage and smile behind it
but no one falls in love with me
and I fall in love with no one
a six foot small framed high-octane energy bright spark sees me
he saw me
looked through me
past that wall
an anomaly
before I felt my bricks burning at the thought of another looking at me
and the mortar oozed out when a stranger’s arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me closer
and I boiled over and erupted
and I frantically built that wall right back up
stronger mortar, rougher brick
and continued along,
I have braved the inevitable
I was free from love
yes, finally
but you:
who forget words when I speak
who challenged me to a thumb war to feel my hands before my lips
who wants to make me smile above all else
you are a rarity,
you are air finally entering my lungs,
you see me
you’re chipping away at that wall so slowly
but I am so afraid
before, if someone showed me any sign of love I would leap into their arms
I yearned for warmth and space and heat and rush
I drank bottles of truth serum and I spilled it all until I was empty
this wall never existed
but now:
when you asked me when was the last time someone told me I was beautiful, I cried
and when you told me you wanted to know my past without judgment, I cried
and when you said how you fell asleep looking into my eyes and looked into them hours after yours were closed, I cried
and my chest keeps swelling and sinking and pushing
and it is because I feel as though I am so tainted that you shouldn’t want me
I feel so much; I am a walking hurricane
I breathe nothing but fire
I no longer see stars at night
because I want love more than anything
but I am so deathly terrified of it
this familiar coat of all feelings; a patchwork of combined thoughts
I’ve worn it so many times before that it has ripped in so many places
it’s lost its shape
so I pinned it to the wall
but you,
you stood on the other side of the wall
at a distance, where I kept you
and you took the smallest hammer
and began chiseling away at my brick
and I panicked
because you said I was beautiful
and you loved my eyes
and you see through me
but I stopped myself from building it back
you see through me,
past me,
I should let the rubble surrounding my feet be a reminder of my strength instead of a weakness,
a break,
demolish me
break me into pieces until I am surrounded by dust
you should see all of me
tear down the wall.