“Anybody can sympathise with the sufferings of a friend, but it requires a very fine nature to sympathise with a friend’s success.”

— Oscar Wilde (via amargedom)

I’m very proud of you for waking up today. You are very brave. Existing can be hard sometimes and that’s okay. I’m proud of you even if all you did today was exist. I’m proud of you for existing.

Kindness is often mistaken for softness and let me tell you, friends….that is a mistake you don’t want to make. 

Kind people are not born that way, they do not stumble into it, kind people are forged in fire and darkness and imploding stars…they have steel cores. Throw a punch and you’re going to break your hand. 

“I am a child with an old soul. I see magic in everything, but at the same time, everything tires me because I feel everything so very deeply.”

— juansendizon  (via wnq-writers)

you’ve got to keep your achievements private sometimes, even away from the people that you think you're supposed to tell. sometimes people just use your achievements to feed their own, to make it look like their own, until it's no longer your achievement, but theirs. that's how we lose the happiness we have for ourselves, that's how we lose the respect for ourselves, that's how we lose belief in ourselves.

-herhiddenflaws

you don’t have to be the one to stop the tears. but you can be the one to start the smile.

-herhiddenflaws || :’)

i’m sorry that you couldn’t accept having colour in your life, that your life is monotonous and empty, just like the black hole in your heart, that could’ve been filled with the love for black people. that the deep browns that are left after a battle you’ve won don’t remind you of all the brown people who have fought in wars for the freedom of you and your country. or when that taste lingers, on the tips of your tongue, of your favourite meal, you don’t show warmth to the asian people who made that warm meal. your life’s a canvas, and yet, it seems to be blank with your white skin.

-herhiddenflaws || people of colour.

you were the rose that people seemed to pick first, not because you were beautiful. passing you on and on, taking you away from home, never giving you a chance to grow, they taught you to only love rain, the pain, all the dirt and your hurt, never the sun, its light, what made you feel bright. but like all roses, you had thorns, and they became your words, your power, making people sting with tears when they see your words, yet a sting they seemed to like, they gave hope and love and light, that feeling when a thorn is taken out and the pain is taken away. yet your words never had a voice behind them. and like all flowers, you slowly died because you were taken from your home. like the rose in a jarbell that turned a certain someone into a beast because they could not learn to love, nor could they be loved, with its petals falling and dying, the dying of love, until you came along, and learned to love me as a beast, and turned me back to life, but unlike the fairy tale, there was no happy ending. once the rose died, it died. it died of its own accord, ripping its own petals out and taking away the beauty it once had, i never had.

-herhiddenflaws

you drew shooting stars on your skin, 'cause nobody told you to accept the constellations you already had across your body. you were galaxies in all shades of bright crimsons, deep scarlets, and browns, don't forget the black holes too, rough and fierce like the sun you are, and yet, they made those stars sting. you were a whole solar system but they only compared you to the corrupted surface of the earth.

-herhiddenflaws

people try saving you from death, but they don’t realise that you need saving from life.

-herhiddenflaws

and you’ll get your life back. each battle you face is just a battle to take a piece of your life back to where it belongs, in you, but your demons are just trying to get there first. but you’ll win every battle, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many times you fall or are wounded, you will get your life back. don’t expect these battles to pass within a moment, some wars have lasted years. it’s okay if you take time. don’t think that just because you are wounded, you can’t fight anymore. wounded soliders have fought in amidst of icy breezes attacking them before their enemies have. wounded does not mean weak. walking whilst you’re wounded, fighting with shooting stars in the shape of your scars, that’s what strength is. you. will. get. your. life. back. i promise you.

-herhiddenflaws

you rip pages out of my life and expect me to be complete. but how does a book make sense when pages, whole chapters, are ripped out and burned in the fires that created the paper my life story was written on. you shorten the book of my life story when you rip half the pages out, and yet you expect me to try and live any longer? you shortened the book, you shortened my life. i'm just the person who wrote the last page. but you can't rip that page out, can you?

-herhiddenflaws

you are the calm before my storms,

the rose beneath my thorns.

-herhiddenflaws

you’d rather me live a life insane, than leave a life insane.

-herhiddenflaws

looking up at the moonlit rain that crashed down on us. sitting on the edge of a roof, the wind welcoming us, shutting the attic window so we had no way of going back there, but that's what we wanted, that's all we wanted. we were cold and we loved it, we were soaked in the rain's love and we loved it, we loved every part of it. you painted your pictures and i wrote my words. full moon, two crescents intersecting, holding onto each other, just how you held me with your paintbrush and i held you with my pen. we were a writer and an artist, yet we both fell so in love. and in the end, all you painted was the moon, and all i wrote about was the moon, because we loved each other, to the moon and never back.

-herhiddenflaws

and she didn’t fight so hard with the little strength she had left in her, just to be turned away by the people she fought for, all the reasons she stayed. she didn’t leave that battlefield only to enter a place where people noticed the air more than they ever noticed her. at least on the battlefield, her demons welcomed her and gave their devilish smile her way every now and again. whilst they can’t even look at her. is she a book with chapters that you can rip out just because you don’t like the way the author wrote them? and it seems to be all her happy pages too. so is all that’s left of her? just a novel of sadness and sorrows, because hope and love and all things nice were just fiction to her? and what’s worse is that she can’t fight back in this war, like she could with her demons. because she’s just an object. a book. she can’t move. she can only be touched with dirty hands, and read by whoever picks her up, copies spread all around the world, yet becoming further away from the truth as rumours make their own version of herself. and people claim to be drawn to this book, close to it, like they know the author. they’re only drawn to the chapters they liked, the sadness and sorrows, not the happy pages or the hope, yeah, “that’s all fake or unimportant”. they don’t love the author at all, nobody loves the author, they just love the words. and so the author no longer becomes the author of its own book. she no longer writes her own life story. it’s told through the tales of others, rumours creating each twisting path that they get lost in. the only truthful stories they have left of her, or soon will have, are the notes she left, each moment she fought to live, for them.

-herhiddenflaws

do you really think that your tears will water my grave and bring me back to life?

-herhiddenflaws