You’ll get to an age where all you can think about is having your shaking body clasped beneath someone else’s and however many years of longing will leak out of your hands until you’re trying to hold yourself together with the hope that maybe someday you’re going to be wanted with a fire that burns out entire forests. All I can tell you is that you should hold out for that hope, one day you’re going to be touched with so much intention you’ll forget any other time someone held your hand.
― Azra T ‘teenage blues’ (via spikesandstars)
How wonderful it is, to be silent with someone.
― Kurt Tucholsky (via cold-winter-days)
Sometimes, I forget that I am young. I forget that I have only been blessed with a quarter of a century. I forget that mistakes are part of trying. I forget that fear is motivation, not food for anxiety. I forget that friendship takes kindness, and openness. I need to forget those who have made me less kind and less open. I forget the way a first kiss feels. I forget to smile sometimes. I forget what it’s like to be wooed, except by myself. I forget that it’s better to woo yourself than to expect others to do it for you. I forget how to give a genuine hug to someone other than my mother and my father. Because I’m fearful others won’t return it. I forget the sound of my first boyfriend’s voice. I forget to eat well. I forget to make eye contact, retail has killed a friendlier version of myself. I forget not to stand tall and act like I don’t care, because of how I was approached when I cared. I forget that kindness and courage can go hand in hand. I forget who I was when I was 19. I forget what it looks like when someone wants to be your friend. I forget because I remember that no one can change my life, only I can. I remember these wonderful women who have looked me in the eye, and told me good, and kind words. Strong words. I forget that each day is a blessing. That each day is what I make it. That each day belongs to me and me alone. I forget. I’m going to forget forgetting and start remembering.
That Kind Of Woman (via cold-winter-days)


When my grandmother first said “those” three words to my grandfather,

she said them by tossing a pinch of salt over her shoulder at their wedding.

When I first really said them, they were to myself as an apology

for nineteen years of viewing my body as a wound in need of a tourniquet,

or a grave in need of upheaval. Nineteen years of viewing my body

with the antonym of love and the synonym of dislike.

But when I met the first person I ever slept with, I said those three words

like bruises that would never heal.

They came out like a flock of moths instead of a stomach full of butterflies,

and they burned as they came.

But when he said it back, he said it with his palms

and they returned those three words to me through his fingers.

That was when I learned that scars don’t always have to speak,

that “I love you” doesn’t always have to take the form of words.

Because sometimes to repeat language is to deny it of its meaning,

just as calling all moons in the solar system by the same name

refuses them of the beauty that makes them unique.

My grandmother knew it long before she married my grandfather

and when she finally stepped up to the altar, she knew it then too.

So now when I say “I love you,” I say it in gestures and glances,

but mostly with forgiveness, just like I learned to forgive my body

for nineteen years of being a mistake.

Each mind is a different world.
― Mexican proverb   (via miszanthrope)
Loving me will not be easy. Some days I will be a stuttering apology and you won’t know how to handle all the things I’ve done wrong.
― writingsforwinter  (via thatkindofwoman)
I want to do more in this world than just live in it.
― Unknown (via invenios)