abigailvictoriaa

One day, you’re 18 and the boy you fell for in high school breaks your heart.

One day, you’re 25 and the boy who broke your heart has been long gone and his name is just another name among the bunch of “lovers that went wrong”. Among the “Should’ve beens” and “Would’ve beens”.

So there it is. Be 18. Wear your heart on your sleeve. Give your number to a stranger on the train who sparked a conversation with you about the weather or whether your Thursday night was vacant. Wear your heart on your sleeve. Love defiantly. Forgot what heartbreaks feels like, just remember how you wrote good poetry with mascara infused tears leaving track-marks along your cheekbones. Let boys look at you, you are a girl of beauty after all. Wear a new shade of lipstick that begs the attention. Run in the morning, understand you are free. Wear your heart on your sleeve.

And by all means, be 18. One day, you’ll be 25 and miss the petty heartbreaks of being 18.

18 - Zienab Hamdan (Via moonlyaffairs)

Absolutely love this

(via amfortenberry)

abigailvictoriaa

People always say that it hurts at night
and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am
is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken.

But sometimes
it’s 9am on a tuesday morning
and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up

And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss them so much
you don’t know what to do with your hands.

Rosie Scanlan, On Missing Them  (via bluegirls)
abigailvictoriaa

If they don’t reply to your texts — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t call you — they’re not interested in you.

If they forget your birthday — they’re not interested in you.

If they’re hung up on their ex — they’re not interested in you.

If they’re obsessed with being single — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t want to meet your friends — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t want you to meet their friends — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t ask questions about your life — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t tell you things about their life — they’re not interested in you.

If they only speak to you when they want to have sex with you — they’re not interested in you.

If they only have sex with you when they’re drunk — they’re not interested in you.

If they say “should we just keep this between us?’ after you have sex with them — they’re not interested in you.

If they don’t have sex with you — they’re not interested in you.

If they can always find a psychobabble rationale about who “I am” or “you are” or “we are” as reason why you can’t be together — they’re not interested in you.

If they have said for more than six months that they would like to be with you “BUT” — they’re not interested in you.

And if you still need convincing — think of it this way. Think of what the real day-to-day of life is taken up by. Life is birthday parties at terrible pubs. Life is losing your credit card and the annual Melbourne Cup sweepstake in the office. Life is hen’s nights, bucks’ nights, sitting on the phone for three hours to get U2 tickets and not getting them, the apartment upstairs flooding your house, interval training, calorie counting, cancer scares, illegal mini cabs, Secret Santa, rail replacement buses and Dido albums. Dogs die, cars crash, bin liners break, contracts end, curtain rails collapse, trains get delayed, football teams lose. Divorce happens and so do earthquakes and so does An Audience With Michael Bublé. Landlords put rent up, phones get stolen and the supermarket often completely runs out of hummus.

Now, taking all of the above into account — you look me dead in the eye and tell me the truth. Do you really have enough spare energy to pursue someone who isn’t interested in you? Do you really want to waste any more time on top of all of that? No. Me neither. So give it up, my friend. It’s a loser’s game. Delete their number. Don’t go on any more dates with them. Stop lurking their Facebook page. Feels good, doesn’t it?

abigailvictoriaa
Wanna know the fucking truth? Nobody is fucking happy. Nobody has skin made from oil paint and sunlight. Nobody fucking understands this world. Fuck, nobody probably understands math as much as they claim. You’re here one day and the next you’re not. God? Religion? I’ve learned a lot more about the world by eating acid and swallowing pills. Tell me what your church has done for you? Tell me if you have holes in your mouth from speaking lies? Wanna know the fucking truth? Pity is just another word for pathetic. Drink beer and watch the sunrise from every rooftop. Take photographs naked. Take photographs kissing. Take photographs having sex. Stop making everything about sexuality. Wanna know the fucking truth? Nobody really gives a damn if you lost your virginity at fourteen or if you were the president in high school. Wanna know the fucking truth? There is no such thing as the right person. People leave. They change like ocean currents, they leave you with bruises in your calves. And you wanna know the fucking truth? You get better. You learn to love. You find God in between the cracks of a wall when you’re puking your limbs out. You wanna know the fucking truth? Go find it.
something someone should have told me when i was eighteen  (via irynka)
sunflower-field-wonderland

ala-place-clichy:

                                                   I want a night
                                                       with you.
                                                   I want to close
                                                     the curtains.
                                                I want to lay in bed
                                              and feel you breathing.
                                               I want the only noise
                                                   to be my inhale
                                              replying to your exhale.
                                           I want to trace my fingers
                                           along every line and curve
                                                    of your back.
                                            I want to feel your face
                                              buried into my neck.
                                              I want to lay like this
                                              and feel every worry
                                                        melt
                                          the same way that I melt
                                              when I am with you. 

abigailvictoriaa
What’s my damage? My damage is that I have been walked on so much that I am genuinely surprised when I look in the mirror and see that my flesh is not made out of carpet. My damage is that I am concerned that the people who touch me might get rug burn. My damage is that I was fourteen when he slapped me across the face and that I was the one to say I was sorry. My fucking damage is that I can still feel the sting whenever anybody raises their hands to me, even if it’s for a high five or a hug. My damage is that I have been called so many names in my life time that I have to look at my birth certificate to be sure I’m not Slut on the dotted line, that I’m not the embodiment of the Whore-shaped scar scraped into my ankle. My damage is that I don’t know how to have sex without crying now and my damage is that I’m terrified that the person I love to death will take it personally. My damage is that my skin feels like a prison and I have spent years trying to pry the bars apart. My damage is that whenever I am out in public, I immediately look for the easiest way to escape. My damage is that I don’t believe I am equally as important with my clothes on. My damage is that most of the time I feel like wet grass between someone’s toes as they stare at my back instead of watching out for it. My damage is that I pick at the ends of my hair because it feels like not even strands of me care enough to stay together. My damage is that I don’t know how to accept compliments without shaking my head, no matter what my mouth is saying. My damage is that each time I have been slapped, poked at, punched, hit, or slammed against fridge doors, I have always heard the words “if you hadn’t…” and I have been reminded by every single person that had touched me as such that my pain matters less than their pride. My damage is that, at seventeen, I still can’t sleep with my bedroom door open. My damage is that I have suicide notes folded in with my socks. My damage is that every time I go to bed, I still wrap myself around your sweater even though it doesn’t even fucking smell like you any more.

My damage by k.p.k

(via towritepoems)