I’m tired. I’m tired of thinking of you, tired of wondering if you miss me, tired of wishing you never left.

I’m not tired of you. I’m tired of being without you.

— I Can be Honest With Myself (#678: October 2, 2014)

I’m not stupid, I know I’m hard to love. I know I am jealous and sensitive, cruel and vengeful.

But you love me like it’s the easiest thing you’ve ever done.

"That’s Because It Is" (#692: October 8, 2014)

:

To let my heart be moved, to laugh from the bottom of my heart, to find meaning in everyday life…I wanted someone to tell me it was okay. I wanted to be given permission. Maybe all this time I’ve been waiting for something like this. Something like a storm…
Mabuchi Kou, Ao Haru Ride (via badwolfkaily)
Don’t break a writer’s heart and think ink won’t spill.
— Ten Word Story #38 - M.D.L (via mingdliu)
I’m always soft for you, that’s the problem. You could come knocking on my door five years from now and I would open my arms wider and say ‘come here, it’s been too long, it felt like home with you.’
Azra.T, “My Heart is Full of Open Windows” (via drizzlelullaby)

People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am
is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.

But sometimes
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning
and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up

And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much
you don’t know what to do with your hands.

— On Missing Them (Rosie Scanlan)
People aren’t books, I’ve learned.
You can’t bookmark your favorite pieces
to return to whenever you’re feeling lonely;
when the nights get too cold and you
need something familiar to keep you warm,
you can’t reopen their spines and wear
out their pages and call that obsession love.
— Pavana (via sideofherlife)
You are allowed to miss him. You are allowed to miss her. You’re only human and you can’t be expected to have it together every second of every day. Like when you find a bobby pin under your bed or catch just a whisper of his scent on your favourite t-shirt, you’re allowed to shut the door and not want to move from your bed for the rest of the night. Because life is hard and things are meant to be dwelled upon, whether it’s been two days, two months or even two years. It’s all still going to hurt because it mattered to you. The same way you hear a song from your childhood and still remember all the words, you’ll always remember her sleepy, confused look in the morning or his shirts hung up for work the next day. And you don’t have to pretend to be over it just because your parents might be worried or your friends are tired of hearing about it. You are allowed to cry through it. Fight it in stages. Take in that smell one last time and then wash it away. But only let it go once you’re ready and, before you do, know that your strength is not defined by the number of days it takes to remove them from your memory. Because fixing a broken heart is not like surgery. You can’t fall asleep without feeling a thing and then wake up and have no recollection of what has happened. You’re going to feel all of it, every single day, and every one of those days is going to hard. But once the pain starts to fade away, you’ll realise that your heart is like a garden, and you must remove the dead roses at the roots so that you can begin to see something new grow again.
The thing about sadness is that it never warns you that it will come back. You’ll end up with an aching heart again, minutes after laughing, and it will feel like you found someone in your house; someone who you thought had left.
— W.J (via cascadingletters)
It feels like I’m losing you.
It feels like I’m losing my mind.
— I Guess That’s the Same Thing (#640: August 31, 2014)

mademoisellerika:

Pour acid into the water, and not water into the acid, as to prevent possible unwanted reactions. I’m the water, you’re the acid, and despite knowing the said statement, I’m pouring all the water in me to the smallest portions of acid in you, anyway.

Be very, very careful what you put into that head, because you’ll never, ever get it out.
— Thomas Cardinal Wolsey (via rantwriteread)