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My brother killed himself
on the twenty-eighth Thursday of last year
and I missed four days of work
and my mom wanted to know ‘Why’.
My brother
he was always a fan of beauty
but what he did
was not beautiful at all.

And last week I got the news
that one of my good friends from high school
had overdosed
(again)
except this time
she’d gone too far
and now she was gone.
And I had a hard time falling asleep at night
and her mother
hugged me tight
and thanked me for coming to the service
but I did not
want to be there at all.
This is not
beautiful.

The girl down the street
would’ve turned 21 last year
and I can scarcely imagine
the wild times she would’ve
(should’ve)
had.
But she is buried six feet deep
after falling nearly 300
and she did not leave a note.
This is not
beautiful.

My freshman year of college
and my roommate was beautiful
and how I wanted to be just like her.
But she wore herself down
till she was
almost invisible
and if you blinked
you had to go and find her all over again.
So now her parents are no longer supporting her college tuition
but are paying her hospital bills
watching their daughter crumble.
This is not
beautiful.

So y’all can take your narcissistic
romanticizing
and glamorizing
of self harm and eating disorders and committing suicide
and shove them as far up your ass
as you possibly can.
Starvation is not beautiful.
Killing yourself is not beautiful.
Sadness
is not beautiful.
This note I am writing
is not beautiful.

But you
you are beautiful
and it’s about damn time you start believing it.

(via inevita-bly)

(Source: runiqu)

I promise to love you:

at 6am when you’re waking to go to work, to school, or whatever road life takes you on, and when you didn’t sleep well, your hair is a mess, and your eyes are sleepy.

at 8am when we say goodbye for the day and you’re rushing out the door with a cup of tea and your car keys in the other hand.

at 5pm when you’re exhausted from the day and people have worn you out and you feel like crying, and falling asleep and escaping from everything. I will kiss your forehead, and wrap myself in your arms.

at 10pm when you’re heading to bed, even though you won’t sleep for hours. Especially when we become a human knot wrapped up in sheets and kisses.

at 3am when loneliness and sadness do not destroy you, but consume you and when you weep without an explanation, I’ll kiss your lips softly and tell you you’re the absolute best and that things will be better soon

I will love you when you grow old, and I will love you after that. I will love you if I’m no longer here. I will love you, I will love you, and I will love you.
(via n-ul)

(Source: -poetic)

Skin.
That is all I remember.
Skin on skin.
You. Asleep. Awake.
Beside me. Legs sprawled free,
sprawled over me, under me,
draped around my thighs.
Skin.
How you gave goosebumps
on my everything when you spoke me into
existence. Rubbing into each other like
two genies without a lamp.
Skin.
Miles and miles of shredded skin
on your bedroom floor,
in your shower drain,
beneath the kitchen sink. Sink.
How it is when I was near you.
When all my chest wanted was
to sink into you. Melt into you.
Bodies sliding into each other.
Writing lyrics. Poems.
Sun-kissed, snow-kissed. Perfect still.
Skin on skin on skin.
The paintings on your breast,
the roughness of my curves,
the galaxies on your hip,
the lack of space for me.
Skin.
All I am left with.
Your empty sheets. And my skin.
Perfect still.

Sade Andria Zabala (surfandwrite) | Skin

I am perfect with or without you. I am the spotlight that illuminates your stage. Without me you are a blank canvas, an empty shell, a brick in the wall. Just another ordinary boy. Boring, boring, boring. Next.

(via surfandwrite)

Don’t kiss him unless you are prepared for the gunpowder
he leaves hanging at the edges of your lips.

Don’t kiss him because
he has always been a loaded gun,
ready to shoot a round of bullets down your throat
when he kisses you back.
And when he does, oh darling,
you won’t dare complain about the blood clotting your stomach
or the burns his breath leaves against your face
or the way his hands grip your neck so tightly
you think he is trying to find a trigger to pull.

Don’t kiss him because
your mother never taught you that love
should taste like acid
or that it should leave holes in your chest where
you thought your heart was,
before he coaxed it out with
his hands
and left.

A Story A Day #6 by r.b (via rbcages)
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