i hit my coworkers shoulder lightly and he was like “you’re going to make me cry like a girl” and i was like “what’s wrong with being a girl?” and he was quiet for a moment then he looked into the distance and whispered “the social standards they’re forced to live by”
It’s not that I don’t love you. (via extrasad)
i’m in tears.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.
Why people ask me shit like “how was work?” or “how is school?” like work is work, school is school, I would rather be on a yacht right now while gettin some dick but here I am
whenever I’m traveling I always get tripped out at the fact that this is someone’s actual hometown like they know every back road and how to get everywhere and they’ve probably had tons of memories in this citybut I’m just someone passing by
It’s so fucking twisted, you know. This whole “love” thing. Like really? You fall in love and you literally fall. You crash to the ground and I swear to god all your bones break. You’re fucking shattered but you don’t notice because you’ve got this beautiful boy whispering in your ear and kissing your neck and nothing else matters. But then he leaves and suddenly you feel it. You feel everything. And you’re hysterically crying in your car at 4 in the morning in some empty parking lot because it’s the only place that doesn’t taste like him and you’re trying to hold your bones together but his old t-shirts don’t work as a cast, wrapping them around your chest won’t fix the craters in your ribs. Nothing stops the aching.
No mom they aren’t strangers on the internet they went to school with me but moved away