And uhh, I get too clingy, I bitch about things, I'm not perfect, I'm emotionally damaged, I get jealous about everything, I'm a mess, I seek for nostalgia, I kill people in my mind, and I roll with the best!
Sad and funny story: I hate myself so much I want to kill me. Hahaha.
The air outside smelled like chimney smoke, and my hands and cheeks grew numb as I pushed my bike through the cold winter wind. I churned the pedals and shifted gears until I found one that made the bike go faster. I pressed the pedals hard enough to feel my thighs tighten against my jeans. The street was as empty as you’d expect it to be on a chilly Sunday morning. The few cars on the road had plenty of room to make wide circles around me. When I glanced inside the windows, I saw people dressed for church. I saw cute little children chatting with their parents as they walk. At one side of the street, I saw a couple, walking along side by side each other, feeling really in love as they caress each other’s hand. And in that moment, that could have been us, I thought.
Sometimes I envied those girls and their freedom to smoke and drink and parade their power of seduction. But I knew the cost was high. Because I know girls like that, brashness will turn into bitterness as soon as the light of youth faded from their faces.
I can’t afford another heartbreak.
→ U.N.I. by Ed Sheeran
Maybe all people is sad. Some of them actually are really good in hiding it that’s why others can’t see it. Maybe I’m one of them or not. There will be times you need to hide it because no one really understands you or because simply others do not care. You can’t blame them, they have other things to think and care about. They too have problems they can’t and won’t share. This is the reality. Its either you deal with it or you let yourself be eaten by it. Either way, it will be hard and painful!
They hang around, hitting on your friends
or else you never hear from them again.
They call when they’re drunk, or finally get sober,
they’re passing through town and want dinner,
they take your hand across the table, kiss you
when you come back from the bathroom.
They were your loves, your victims,
your good dogs or bad boys, and they’re over
you now. One writes a book in which a woman
who sounds suspiciously like you
is the first to be sadistically dismembered
by a serial killer. They’re getting married
and want you to be the first to know,
or they’ve been fired and need a loan,
their new girlfriend hates you,
they say they don’t miss you but show up
in your dreams, calling to you from the shoe boxes
where they’re buried in rows in your basement.
Some nights you find one floating into bed with you,
propped on an elbow, giving you a look
of fascination, a look that says I can’t believe
I’ve found you. It’s the same way
your current boyfriend gazed at you last night,
before he pulled the plug on the tiny white lights
above the bed, and moved against you in the dark
broken occasionally by the faint restless arcs
of headlights from the freeway’s passing trucks,
the big rigs that travel and travel,
hauling their loads between cities, warehouses,
following the familiar routes of their loneliness.
→ Kim Addonizio, “Ex-Boyfriends” (via fleurishes)
