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#spilled emotions
enigmaticstarr · 8 months
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The dumb urge to be loved and liked by people has ruined me.
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crescent-july · 4 months
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August has always been the most distressing month in the year. The emotions are wild and untamed, the hunches keep haunting you, your heart reminds you of who you love so deeply and your mind warns you that it may not end so well.
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thewaitingluna · 11 months
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every time I come to like someone, I wonder how long will it take for me to poison them with my darkness and how long it will take for them to run away..
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anvesha-v · 6 months
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Someone once told me, "If you really like someone, being friends with them would be better than dating them."
I was too young to understand then, but I think I get it now.
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punk-strawberry · 1 month
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jo march was. right. greta gerwig did her so much justice. jo march was an aching mess of a little woman. her older sister meg left, chasing her dream marriage, and jo with her inkstained fingers and cramped attic remained. amy went to europe, the perfect picture of a good lady, and jo, with her abrasive tongue and hot-headed temper remained. beth went to the beyond, having seen no dream but of kindness and family, dead from being kind and surrounded by family- and jo, always the odd one out, the one who loved her family in isolation, remained.
and laurie. laurie with his quicksilver grin and charming boyishness, jo's best friend. he loved her. she loved him too. just not the way he wanted. and jo knew. laurie went to europe and and loved amy truer and deeper than his infatuation with jo....and jo, with her guarded heart and sensible mind, remained.
always, always everyone thought jo with her oddity and jo with her beautiful, big, enormous dreams would go first. she remained.
i'm so lonely, she sobs. louisa may alcott fashioned a Jo March quirky and imperfect, and 150 years later Greta Gerwig made her into a desperately lonely child. Maybe when she was crying in the attic Jo could feel the weight of years on her shoulders, the realization that there was no childhood left, no sisters playing in a garden without care. No two neighbours simply being best friends. Nothing and no one had prepared her for this, and Jo March was so lonely.
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she-writer · 4 months
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To love a nymph
Deep down you must have always known she wasn’t yours. She belonged to the water… You held her close and the idilic thought of possession over love bloomed in your mortal mind. One could call you completely senseless to excuse your obliviousness. I blame it on your human nature. You couldn’t have known, could you?… that she found more comfort in the effervescence of the lake than underneath your warm touch, that she found the silence from under the surface more rhythmic than your own, passion exhausted breathing. It’s not your fault. She was never yours. She couldn’t have been… no, not when the water inside her longed for home.
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•pics not mine, credit to the owner, but text belongs to me•
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error404-lostinspace · 3 months
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Art doesn't necessarily have to be perfect to be beautiful, the important thing is what it arouses in the soul of the observer.
And that's why I love art.
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melloncolliegalaxies · 2 months
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lonelywarder · 9 months
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When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them bare and their response is 'You're safe with me' — that's intimacy.
The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo / Taylor Jenkins Reid
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mais-e · 5 months
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We can never go back to who we once were.
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I woke up so early in the morning today. I made myself a cup of coffee and drank it in the balcony, all by myself. The sky was bright, and empty. No music coming out of the neighbor's house, I wonder why. I can't smell the fresh baked bread because the baker's gone and no one came to take her place. There's nothing poetic about drinking coffee in the balcony anymore.
I finished the book you'd given me, yesterday, for what I think is the fourth time. I don't miss you. In the living room, two half-used cigarettes lay on the table, from the last time you were in my apartment. The next day, I found them, I picked one up, put my lips where yours had been. They're still here, but I never touched them again.
Last week, the rose you'd given me on my birthday died in the vase I placed it in, I took such care of it, but it didn't prevent the inevitable. It hit me harder than it should, I don't miss you, so it shouldn't be painful to watch the remaining traces of you leave, the physical proof of our relationship, you loved me once, and I loved you always.
My sister said that the amount of heartache I feel is nothing but a result of the love I had - or might still have- for you. You can't taste the sweetness of love without expecting to experience the bitterness of loss. And I, I lost you.
"I won't miss you," that's what I told you the night you left. "I don't miss you," is what I repeat in my head every morning I wake up and you're not here.
I hate how in loving someone, there's the biggest possibility of feeling pain like nothing else. Letting someone in is like giving them the weapon to hurt you, but trusting them not to use it, which is naive and absurd, but real, oh very real. You're vulnerable, but you don't mind, because you're so consumed by emotions to notice anything outside of you. Love leads to loss, loss births grief. Nothing is fair.
I turn on the radio to fill the silence consuming me. Minutes later, your favorite song is playing. I fall on the floor, crying. I watch the cracks on the dividing line between the wall and the floor. I don't want to miss you, I didn't want you to go in the first place.
I can't face how fragile I am. I'm not just grieving the loss of one person alone. I am grieving all the days we spent together, all the times I made you laugh, the way you held me when we danced, all the places we went to, the music we listened to. I am grieving the love that's gone, the moments that are only memories now. I am grieving the person I was with you.
I sit in the balcony again, it's night, and it's cold. I try to fall in love with my life again. After all, grief is just love's souvenir, and we're all just trying to get through our life, together or alone. We love, we hurt, we move on, and repeat ourselves. Each one of us takes after the person before them. No new chapters in this book, no more poetry, no more words. Because sometimes, the day just ends, but we remain, alone, just like the way it started.
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My writing.
*I have no taglist, it's been really long since I posted any of my writing so I don't know who to tag anymore. Tell me what do you think of this.
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shmwrites · 9 months
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I promise you that there is no way that your life would be better with someone who doesn’t want to be in it.
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iambrillyant · 1 year
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“don’t be upset that they showed you who they truly are, be grateful that you now have the awareness to move forward with no illusions.”
— iambrillyant
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ladywithahandbook · 4 months
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Every night I dress up in your shirt. Your smell fills my nostrils and slowly overwhelms my senses. My mind calms down. I close my eyes and imagine you beside me as I fall asleep.
- Lady With A Handbook
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wedarkacademia · 3 months
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i wonder how many people know the true me
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anvesha-v · 4 months
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Unfortunately, people have a right to decline your love no matter how pure your intentions are. You are not what they want, and that's okay.
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creatingnikki · 1 month
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grew a thicker skin. reduced the sugar in my words and on my lips sharply. brought down the brightness in my eyes by 25%. dusted off three stars from each side. cut my hair short with my own hands. cut some other things. made my smile fade quicker. clenched my teeth every time before I let myself speak. clenched my fists. and my hair. let out only half screams. stopped extending my hand. learned - no help is coming. no decency is left. love is gaslit and only its ashes are left to fill our lungs. is that better? is that better than being empty?
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