oh my gosh my psych teacher had this written on the board last week and I loved it.
(via megan-the-human)
Once Upon a Time....
There was a picture-perfect happy ending, to a fairytale life, staring a beautiful princess. This isn't that story. Instead, it's mine.motherfucker it’s already sunday this is bullshit
They hang around, hitting on your friends
or else you never hear from them again.
They call when they’re drunk, or finally get sober,
they’re passing through town and want dinner,
they take your hand across the table, kiss you
when you come back from the bathroom.
They were your loves, your victims,
your good dogs or bad boys, and they’re over
you now. One writes a book in which a woman
who sounds suspiciously like you
is the first to be sadistically dismembered
by a serial killer. They’re getting married
and want you to be the first to know,
or they’ve been fired and need a loan,
their new girlfriend hates you,
they say they don’t miss you but show up
in your dreams, calling to you from the shoe boxes
where they’re buried in rows in your basement.
Some nights you find one floating into bed with you,
propped on an elbow, giving you a look
of fascination, a look that says I can’t believe
I’ve found you. It’s the same way
your current boyfriend gazed at you last night,
before he pulled the plug on the tiny white lights
above the bed, and moved against you in the dark
broken occasionally by the faint restless arcs
of headlights from the freeway’s passing trucks,
the big rigs that travel and travel,
hauling their loads between cities, warehouses,
following the familiar routes of their loneliness.
Kim Addonizio, “Ex-Boyfriends” (via fleurishes)
(via writingsforwinter)
imagine reading a book of all the lies you’ve told
Imagine reading a book of all the lies that were told to you.
which would scare you more?
(via harrisonhewett)
(via harrisonhewett)
first loves
You know, I don’t think you ever really forget your first love. They’re the one that made your second love possible. Sometimes you want to throw your hands up in the air and say Fuck it to them, but they paved the way for all the other bodies after them. There’s so much beauty in every thunderstorm, so many strangers’ hands touching every day, once, and then maybe they touch again years later, yet no one ever realizes it. Your first love is like no other; you’d stay out past your curfew for them, key cars for them, steal liquor from the drugstore for them, do silly, unimaginable, ridiculous things for them that you’d never do normally.
So many of us think we depend on loneliness when really loneliness is something that depends on us. It’s something that you have to starve slowly so you can kill it and throw it away. God, what a terrible thing it is to love, isn’t it? To sit in the back of an abnormal psychology class or a human relations class and feel the tension between you and the person sitting in front of you so palpably, so real you could almost reach out and touch it, like an electric current stretching between the two of you. And the back of their neck, that curve that ends in the darkness of their shirt, the dark hair trailing down the white skin. They’re just so unapologetically human.
And to love that first love so much, to crave them like a drug, to love them so hard you could crush their heart between your fingers like an egg shell; they’re like one of those baby birds that falls out of its mother’s nest and cracks its head on the pavement-you love them that bad. That hard.
And when that first love loves you back, you could kill yourself from the wanting. The wanting is worse when you’re actually with them. You want their legs, to touch their body, their hair, their skin. You fall in love with the way they eat their soup with a fork or their sleepy yawns. Lightning storms are nothing compared to the current of human desire; it carries a maximum voltage like nothing scientists have ever seen. Let me tell you something. There’s a reason Snow White ate that poisoned apple.
There’s a reason your first love never goes away-
they were just practice for your last love.
