They tell you it gets better.
They tell you it'll pass
They tell you it hurts
They tell you you'll get used to saying "was" instead of "is"
What they don't tell you is that it aches for days
What they don't tell you is that every "I'm sorry for your loss" feels like a kick in the face
What they don't tell you is that it doesn't go away, you just get used to it.
A year later, it still feels like a punch to the gut to be accidentally called your name
A year later, it still hurts to breathe
A year later, and the "great" in front of your name hasn't made it hurt any less to lose you.
What they don't tell you, is that they're lying.
We are taught "Sticks and Stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me"
And I am here to say,that that is bullshit.
It hurts to be told your views of yourself are a lie
It hurts, to be told that you don't matter.
And it hurts to be told, that words don't hurt, when all you have swirling around in your head are words
Voices of others
Telling you you aren't good enough, aren't pretty enough, aren't smart enough,
That you aren't ENOUGH
So don't feed me your bullshit that words don't hurt.
Words cause shootings, words cause wars, words cause suicide, words cause pain.
And if words aren't powerful enough to hurt me, then how the hell
As she walked out into the cold, she wished that, just once, someone would care enough to follow her. To ask her why she left, if she was okay, what was going on. She walked through the near-empty campus, noting that everyone else who was still out was with someone else. She settled on a bench, shivering slightly from the frigid air in just her t-shirt and jeans. Staring up at the sky, she took several deep, gasping breaths. She needed to calm down, to come back into reality. But all she could think about were those endless nights, just waiting desperately for him to answer her messages, making sure he was still there, still breathing,
They tell you it gets better.
They tell you it'll pass
They tell you it hurts
They tell you you'll get used to saying "was" instead of "is"
What they don't tell you is that it aches for days
What they don't tell you is that every "I'm sorry for your loss" feels like a kick in the face
What they don't tell you is that it doesn't go away, you just get used to it.
A year later, it still feels like a punch to the gut to be accidentally called your name
A year later, it still hurts to breathe
A year later, and the "great" in front of your name hasn't made it hurt any less to lose you.
What they don't tell you, is that they're lying.
We are taught "Sticks and Stones will break my bones, but words will never harm me"
And I am here to say,that that is bullshit.
It hurts to be told your views of yourself are a lie
It hurts, to be told that you don't matter.
And it hurts to be told, that words don't hurt, when all you have swirling around in your head are words
Voices of others
Telling you you aren't good enough, aren't pretty enough, aren't smart enough,
That you aren't ENOUGH
So don't feed me your bullshit that words don't hurt.
Words cause shootings, words cause wars, words cause suicide, words cause pain.
And if words aren't powerful enough to hurt me, then how the hell
As she walked out into the cold, she wished that, just once, someone would care enough to follow her. To ask her why she left, if she was okay, what was going on. She walked through the near-empty campus, noting that everyone else who was still out was with someone else. She settled on a bench, shivering slightly from the frigid air in just her t-shirt and jeans. Staring up at the sky, she took several deep, gasping breaths. She needed to calm down, to come back into reality. But all she could think about were those endless nights, just waiting desperately for him to answer her messages, making sure he was still there, still breathing,
Some nights I look at myself and hate what I see: vow to drop at least 500 calories from my diet and start doing 270 crunches every day.
Some nights I look at myself and and hate what I see: eat my feelings aways while crying and scrolling through tumblr.
Some nights I look at myself and hate what I see: give up and cry myself to sleep.
None of those nights are healthy, but they’re quite common.
Some nights I look at myself and love what I see: masturbate for several hours and call it a night, breathless and sweaty.
Some nights I look at myself and love what I see: go to bed singing with a smile on my face and joy in my body.
Some nigh
I can still taste my first cigarette.
I've showered, brushed my teeth, used mouthwash, and done 6 loads of laundry since then.
I can still taste my first cigarette.
Thinking a gay boy with a cigarette is the closest thing to a Valentine I've had in 3 years.
I can still taste my first cigarette.
Can still feel the smoke in my lungs, clouding my heart.
I can still taste my first cigarette.
Feel the nicotine coursing through the now-empty veins.
I can still taste my first cigarette.
And it tastes like you.
Touch is important. Touch is something that we all crave. Touch is not the same thing as sex, or even flirting. But in America, we've forgotten. We think of it as sexual, as something you only do with a sexual partner. People fight their natures. We don't touch our friends, hugs are short. We don't innocently hold hands. I think that's why there is so much sexual crime here. Because our need for touch is repressed. People fight, and fight, and fight against their want for contact, until it's too much. They break down. Their need overcomes them and the force their touch on others. It also explains the rise in teen/young adult preg