unscriptedconfabulationmn
Things are worse and I didn’t realize how badly I wanted to feel your touch until I felt my knees collapse under the weight of all my problems. I don’t need you, but I want you. It’s a lot easier to breathe when your hugging me than it is choking down oxygen of a broken home. Please come back. I’m so sorry.

please give me a second chance I want to hold your hand

m.n.

(via unscriptedconfabulationmn)
mingdliu
People always complain when you’re writing about sad things. When each poem and story ends on a heartbreaking note, they start to wonder what’s wrong with you. But haven’t you noticed that people love the saddest poems and relate to the most painful stories? And then you realize how sad that really is.
M.D.L, “Why do you write about sadness so much? Write about something happy.” (via mingdliu)
sheets-and-eyelids
i will not apologize for being too much for you.
i saw that girl in the dress that fell midway from thigh to knee.
you called her a slut and when i looked down at my own hemline i wondered what you truly thought of me.
do you remember the rosy lipstick that you asked me not to wear because i was “pretty without it?”
so did you think i was ugly with it?
for a month you needed a haircut but i never said anything because if you like it long you like it long,
but then you said “all i ask is don’t wear your hair up, i like it more down”
as if your opinion was supposed to matter so much to me.
so i’m not sorry for wearing tight dresses or for not holding my tongue.
i’m not sorry for keeping the lipstick
or for making more money than you
or for losing my temper when you rolled your eyes at my convictions.
i was a river and you were a dam;
you should have known i would crash through you.
i was the noise you wanted to silence and the pistol you wanted to lock
and no, i will never apologize.
if you wanted a girl you could control, you picked the wrong one. (via sheets-and-eyelids)
ninakathawa
My mother married my father when she was just eighteen. Now, while they’re still together, working day to day for their four children, I see the bags under her eyes. I see the stress weighing on her shoulders as she hunches down in her seat. I see her desperate to keep her kids happy while she can barely manage to understand them. My father works a ten hour shift, six days a week. My mother is in bed, asleep, before he even gets home. That’s one day a week they are afforded each other, and they barely spend it together. He grocery shops, and she doesn’t care to join. She stays home to clean the house. And I’ve always jumped into relationships too fast, whether or not it was with someone I had romantic feelings for or just trusting those around me. And it’s never worked out in my favor. I’ve been lied to, used, kept waiting, my trust has been broken countless times, and I’ve cried too many tears over people who hardly gave a damn about me when I’d have given them the world.
What I mean, what I’m trying to say is, I am afraid to love. I am afraid to step into wet concrete and either get stuck, or leave my mark in a place it shouldn’t be. I don’t want to rush into something and then watch it fizzle out like I’ve experienced countless times. My mother was married at eighteen, and if that and her tired eyes have taught me anything, it’s that what feels right in a moment may not be what you’ve always needed. So I keep that in mind, because if I give you all of me right now, there might be nothing left for later.