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|—||Louise Erdrich, The Painted Drum LP (via kushandwizdom)|
I look down at my hands. I see smears of blood
From the years of pain I caused and pain from others
They didn’t help me
Not one bit
I look down at my body, scars from the words pelted at me.
I’m scared to see my arms
Covered by long sleeves
In the sweltering heat of summer
A mess of bracelets
And neat dark red marks
Some lighter than others
Some barely there
Some as noticeable as a train speeding towards you
Why didn’t you notice sooner?
You could’ve stopped this
The knife nearly into my chest
You had the power to stop it
But you just made it worse
|—||A (not quite) poem for my sorrows (via samni-says-hi)|
When you still defending people you don’t fuck with no more. That’s true fuckin emotion n heart.
WAKE. THE. FUCK. UP.
- DEPRESSION IS NOT SPECIAL
- ANXIETY IS NOT CUTE
- SELF HARM SCARS ARE NOT BEAUTIFUL
- SUICIDE IS NOT POETIC
- EATING DISORDERS ARE NOT GLAMOROUS
- MENTAL ILLNESSES ARE NOT ROMANTIC SO STOP TREATING THEM THAT WAY
|—||Gabriel García Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera (via hqlines)|