breathkeepsusalive

holy fuck i can’t do anything right there are bullet holes in my veins that were burned every fucking time i disappointed someone i tripped on daisies on my way to the playground i got sidetracked through a trail of vines and thorns and fallout and the prettiest of all always had the worst prickers i dont mean to be this big mistake i try my hardest i do what i can when i can but my ambitions are simply to survive and not to be bigger than this world i dont see why they couldn’t just see me for the person i am i am not better i am not greater i am not something more than my situation i am a person.

and each kiss felt rehearsed each one felt like it had been practiced, there was no more sloppy innocence no more messy passion that left me craving more and even if it was not perfect, at least it was real. it did not leave fire on my cheeks and water in my lungs so that i felt like i was burning and drowning at the same time, that beautiful harmony was gone.

being a poet is the worst thing to be, because poets are broken and damaged (feeling so much and saying so little) poets are a walking cataclysm, vowels and nouns and adjectives that walk among us and pierce our compassion with their honesty, there is fire in my veins and water in my lungs drowning and burning until i find the asylum in between. i can’t say the things that i feel, i can’t feel the words that i say. we are nothing without passion, we are empty. there is nothing beautiful in a tragedy, there is nothing noble in being broken. my compass is made of copper, my heart is rusted steel, my eyes a

it's like i woke up, looked in the mirror, and realized i was ugly. *** i'm not sure when it happened-- but one day my friends stopped playing dress up and started being the grown-ups and i don’t know what scared me more that my childhood was over, or that we had decided it was all short skirts, lipstick & eyeliner and skin we didn't know we had and suddenly the makeup wasn't to look like mommy, it was to be the people we thought we were. we were in a rush to grow up, until we started to fall apart piece by piece, broken heart after broken heart. we grew up, and we grew apart, trying to find love (or maybe just someone t

The scary thing about eating disorders is that at first it's just "i'll skip lunch" and suddenly you haven't eaten in three days.

you broke my heart and then left it there you crumpled me up like a piece of scrap paper and threw me away you left your scribbles all over me and i can't erase them you picked up the pieces, but paper is never the same. the ink has sunk into me, and nothing will erase it. Try and fix your mistakes; but you never really forget.

Call me selfish all you want, say I have no empathy. Because the only one who is going to look after me, is me.

when I was only fourteen and a half i sat with my head in my hands dressed in black, in his room where i grew up fourteen years on this earth and all i could think “why does everyone die on me.”

i've told myself since i was 11 that there was no room for hope in a heart so broken and so i stitched myself together, with memories i needed to forget so i could stop the pain i still feel unwanted and i still know i'm unlovable and i can't help but feel like there was something i could have done for you and i don't know why but that note made me cry because it made me remember that you exist and i don't know what's the hardest part: that you still love me, or that you always will.