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anything may happen

23. Bostonian. The smell of fresh grass, stars on a clear night. Ocean air. Books and a warm bed. Writing. Pizza, burgers and pasta.

adjustandletgo:

leaveyouapen:

Love is really nothing
But a dream that keeps waking me
For all of my trying
We still end up dying
How can it be?


Don’t say a word, just come over and lie here with me
'Cause I'm just about to set fire to everything I see
I want you so bad I’ll go back on the things I believe
There I just said it, I’m scared you’ll forget about me

Listening to this on repeat.

Delete her number.

Stop ringing her. Stop messaging her. Stop making excuses to see her, to drop by her place.

Erase her name from memory. Remove yourself from her life, more completely than you would like but as completely as she deserves. Move on, so that you can allow her to also move on. When you close your eyes, you don’t get to see her face. Not anymore. You don’t get to think about her lips, the warm glow of her skin when she rests next to you, or how she squeezes your hand in her sleep. You are not allowed to remember the smell of her perfume, that she only drinks mint tea (with two dollops of honey), or that she loves you.

She loves you.

She has been in love with you for too long.

So, forget how she says your name. Forget how she calls your name. Forget how she screams your name. Forget that time you got sick and she stayed up with you all night, letting you lay your head in her lap and holding a cold compress to your forehead. Forget how her hair feels in your fingers. Forget how she looks in your sweatshirts.

Forget her.

Know only that she existed at one point in your life, but relinquish all hope that she could exist at another point — sometime in the future that you are unwilling to specify because you don’t know what you want. Yet. It is not fair for you to swoop in and out of her life as you choose. It is not fair for you to say that you are satisfied with “things as they are” and you will have time to “figure it out” later. Let her stop investing emotionally in you. Let her pour that love and care into the people who deserve her.

Don’t tell her that you think about her all the time. Don’t tell her that it bothers you to hear about her with other people, but that you’re willing to understand as long as she likes you more than them. Don’t tell her that this isn’t the right moment but that there will be a right moment. There is not going to be a right moment. She shouldn’t have to wait for the right moment.

Don’t tell her that you can’t handle ultimatums, that you don’t like the idea of finally adding finality to your relationship — whatever still remains of it.

What you are telling her is that you want to keep her on as an option, that you are taking her for granted, that you want to know she will be there, that you can depend on her at the end of the day. When you find that no one else has stuck around or that those who have are less interesting, less thoughtful, or less doggedly loyal to you.

Doggedly loyal to you.

That is what she has been to you, for you almost as long as you have known her: a constant emotional crutch, the guarantee of stability, a safety net while you reach out to grasp objects that sparkle and shine far greater than she does. All that glitters is not gold, haven’t you heard?

She is fire. You are ice, and you are afraid that her slow burn will smolder your cool, hard demeanor. That’s what has driven your decisions, your actions all along: fear. You are a coward. You are a hypocrite. You are terrified to let her go, but you are afraid she is too good for you, that she could drive you wild, that you would choke on her flames. That she is too much for you to handle right now.

Right now.

But if you choose not to love her now, you can’t choose to love her later.

Lauren Hooper (via flowersfromdirt-)

(Source: laurenhooper, via samanthaunravels)

when i was in grade school
my teacher asked the class to
draw something that scared us.
i drew a closed door with crooked
windows and a knob that was
too close to the ground. she
asked me if that door led to
my closet where the monsters
hid. i shook my little head and told
her that it was the front door of
my house. i didn’t fear monsters,
but i feared doors. i feared the front
door with the intricate mosaic stained
glass that my father walked out of
when he left my mother. i feared
the white french doors with
the symmetrical window panes
that led into the kitchen where
i’d find my mother face down
on the dinner table with a cigarette in
one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
i feared the solid mahogany door whose
hinges creaked every time i tried to go into
the bathroom because i often heard
my sisters whimpers over the water
she kept running to drown out her
crying. i didn’t fear monsters,
i feared doors. i fear what happens
behind them when they are closed and i am
mortified by what i see when they are
opened.

stories from my grandmother’s deathbed (via avggie)

(via samanthaunravels)

today my teacher asked me
where my heart was.
anatomically, i should’ve answered
‘just to the left of the breastbone.’
but my god that’s not where my heart is at all.
it’s inside you.

you have my heart and i don’t ever want it back - sad-disposition (via perfect)

(via cozymornings)

urulokid:

toocooltobehipster:

3 year old death grip!

iM LAUGHING SO HARD BC THE BROTHER IS STARING AT HER LIKE “OMFG” AND SHES STANIDNG BACK THERE HOLDING HER HANDS LIKE “i never knew what i was capable of, my powers are here”

(via kurakens)