She was right. She never looked nice. She looked like art, and art wasn’t supposed to look nice; it was supposed to make you feel something.
me talking to my therapist: i want to die…but like….not actually just…metaphorically…as in like if u offered me immediate death and relief from my consciousness…id say yes….metaphorically…hypothetically…in a theoretical situation…in a hyperbolic manner…metaphorically speaking
I have ruined relationships for fear of ruining those relationships.
*organizes a meeting w my mind, body, and soul* so what the fuck is going on around here
i want you to look at me like the world is on fire and i am the last ocean. i want you to see in my eyes the softness of summer mornings and the quiet of library afternoons. i want you to feel the earth slide under you when i look at you. i want you to find my name in tree bark, in the way that clouds look when they threaten to storm, in stones. i want the world to light up when i am around, i want everything else to seem somehow small and insignificant, as if we are just two dust motes who discovered ourselves in a sunbeam. i want my absence to be a cavern you cannot fill, regardless of what you do.
i want you to feel about me the way i already feel for you.
Page 1 of 297