When I get sad, I dance to the first song you told me was your favorite. I still miss you. I still love you. And that’s very frustrating.



i remember, how back in school, there was this girl in my class, who never really talked much. her grades were good, she had a small circle of close friends surrounding her, and the teachers quite liked her, because she wasn’t one of the problematic sort. at one point in these 8 years of being in the same class, she came inside and i noticed all of a sudden she was half her size.

a few days later i wrote her a message on facebook and asked if everything was alright, she then opened up to me and cried, that she wasn’t, she was depressed, seeing a therapist, trying to find some rest, but her parents were supportive, she was going to make it. our homeroom teacher knew of it, since she noticed it too. how her blue eyes became more grey and how her hips became so thin she had to buy new jeans.

her friends were with her and carried her, when her own legs couldn’t. she was on absence in physical education for quite some time. everybody understood that, if a nice, hard-working and silent girl like her was away, she must have had a good reason to.

i was like a tornado, who was calm and silent, but raised her opinion whenever she saw it fit. i critisized the tasks we were given and never let anyone say shit about me behind my back. i was loud, i was protective of a friend, who was being bullied for her weight, until the day i raised my voice and middle finger and sent the guys down to fucking hell. i was the mommy of many, the pillow for many teary confessions. i was cool, logical advices, not letting anything pink-colored cloud my mind. i hummed lyrics of songs and wrote quotes, that kept me awake on my desk. i was raised fists and always serious, too goddamn serious, never catching what was so funny and made the whole class laugh. grades above average without even trying, but never at the top, never the goddamn best.

call me disgusting, call me selfish and pathetic but how could i have explained the feeling, when she answered me on facebook our homeroom teacher noticed her condition too.

it was like being swallowed by a huge, black hole labeled “disappointed” and trying to say something supportive, but all that came out was a, “i know how you feel” and when i saw her reply, “i’m not quite sure about that”, i couldn’t help but… smile. i was the tornado, i was the rain. i was supposed to destroy, not to be destroyed.

i was the serious person, who never let her friends be hurt. i was red lipstick and thick, black eyeliner, dark clothes, leather jackets. a person, who once laughed about how a woman in a movie looked like when she ran to the hospital because her daughter comitted suicide. the person, who made wet, female cheeks and male, balled up fists turn around in shock. they didn’t understand why i laughed for 15 minutes and simply couldn’t stop and the teacher had to pause the movie and i had to stand up and walk around in the classroom to calm myself down, but whenever i remembered how hilarious she looked, when she turned around the corner with those ridiculous high heels i would laugh until i cried, but honestly i only laughed not to cry (the scene was really funny though). who would have understood if i had told them, “i wish i was the girl from that movie”?

i was the girl who forgot her band-aids and long-sleeved shirt one day and went to physical education with her arms hidden inside her shirt. the teacher thought i was bored as the ace of the class, so she let me do what i want.

how could i have told my homeroom teacher, that i was so disappointed and so, so sad that she never noticed how my smile only lasted for a second and how agony tailed behind me, when nobody noticed that i didn’t voice my opinion as often anymore. how could i have told my friends about the lonely feeling inside my chest, that grew stronger with every single day i spent in that classroom and at home and in the city and in the cafe a few streets farther. oh, did i hate that classmate of mine for being depressed, but still having supportive friends, teachers, and parents. the first time i told my best friend about the cuts and showed her my wrist, she shivered and said, “can you please hide that again”. fuck, the pain. fuck, the pain that day. or how my brother once watched a documentary on self-harming and commented these people were only attention seekers.

sometimes i catch myself blaming them all, and sometimes i blame myself for mastering the arts of hide and seek.


- i have never been found (via paralian-s)

(via paralian-s)

Source: paralian-s

seven things I will teach to my daughter:
1. do not let anybody take advantage of you. i don’t care if they’re your boss or your lover, no one has the right to treat you like shit.
2. you will only receive the respect you think you deserve so think highly about yourself and remember that you are worth the world and everyone ought to start treating you like it.
3. snide little comments are the how things manifest and sometimes they fester and grow into something that leaves you sick and weak and takes the air right out from your lungs. stop it while you can and protect yourself because a little wound leaves an opening for an poisonous words that can eat away at your insides.
4. sometimes people are not who you think they are. people are ever-changing and that means the person standing in front of you is not the same person you first met or the same person you spoke to last month or even the same person from five seconds ago.
5. people can be sweet but people can be vile. but you can decide who you want surrounding you. choose wisely and remember that it is okay to be selfish. it is okay to take care of yourself before anyone else.
6. time is irrelevant when it comes to who stays and who goes in your life. people change. you’ve changed. and if that means you don’t quite fall into step with the people you spent the last seven years with, then so be it.
7. but remember that you are a beautiful flower and you cannot let others destroy you. also remember that you are fierce lion and you are here to survive. you are here to live for no one but yourself.

- “I  feel as if the things he says to me are emotional abuse but I don’t know how to let him go.” // k.c.w. (via dreamingtravesty)
Source: dreamingtravesty


"it’s not enough to love her," she said. "boy, you gonna have to let her know too."

Source: mimickingmaelstroms



If you take a young man and woman and they both tell a stranger that they work in the same restaurant, it’s very likely that they will assume that the woman is the waitress, and the young man a cook.

But I thought a woman’s place was in the kitchen? Not when she’s being paid for it. I can’t believe it took me this long to realize the implication of this. A woman’s place is one of servitude.

this fucking hit me like a fucking train 

(via thehottestmessyouknow)

Source: thornsandwillows




I’ve already reblogged this, and there will be a day when I will not reblog this, but today is not that day.

(via spoken-not-written)

Source: inthemidstofmonsters