if ur secretly in love with me u should tell me
not because those feelings might be reciprocated but because its really good for my ego
Dove hired a forensic artist to draw how women see themselves versus how others see them - the results are moving.
i just want you here
is that so hard?
"There was an episode, one of my favorite moments in Star Trek, when Captain Kirk looks over the cosmos and says, ‘Somewhere out there someone is saying the three most beautiful words in any language.’ Of course you heart sinks and you think it’s going to be, ‘I love you’ or whatever. He says, ‘Please help me.’ What a philosophically fantastic idea, that vulnerability and need is a beautiful thing."
Hugh Laurie (via polymathlete)
i feel so
when are things going to get better
can i stop
"I bought plum blossoms
more for the name
than for the color;
I buy lipstick that way, too.
In other words,
if it sounds like a poem,
I’ll take it."
Dorothea Grossman, “Untitled” (via mirroir)
i dont feel attractive to you anymore.
maybe that’s why im so angry—so sad. i don’t look anything like her, and you loved her most.
i would give anything to be taller, to be longer—to be skinnier: to have you feel for me what you felt for her. i would give anything to be not me.
“I can see why people consider you a different kind of smart; the kind that
doesn’t result from getting straight A’s in class; the kind of smart that
comes through seeing the world as contingencies of good and bad.
I do want to say that what some may call your outlook “gloomy” is actually
comforting for me, because you are constantly aware of the less fruitful
parts of life - the anxiety, the anger, the pain. Comforting because you,
unlike many, see things in more complexity, reaching depths in a way
experienced chess players do - thinking many steps ahead of time, yet also
thinking about the swarms of past and previous moves that cannot be
changed. And you are getting through it all without too much a detriment, or at least it seems to be.”
Today you asked me why I don’t write about us anymore. Today I told you it’s because we started fighting, and the romance in perfection had left us.
But it’s not that, and you know it isn’t—it’s because I’m selfish and afraid that if I write about you too much I won’t dote on you enough and we’ll be gone: just more writings in a little girl’s archive: it’s because I’m too busy loving you to care for words. It’s because what is there left to explain, other than you’re the stars in my eyes and the ones that light the skies?
What is there left to explain, other than you and I are the source of cliches: the kind of couple that can finish eachother’s sentences and thoughts and souls—what is there left to explain: that two months together and now eight hours apart we function like fish without water, trying to fill our tank with tears?
It’s because you love me that I somehow a writer’s heart is too full to write: too content with lovemaking on sateen sheets and cuddling on leather sofas and stealing touches on bodies we already own. It’s because I love you that writing about us takes second to us.
I think when you’re in a relationship long enough—put two people, completely unfiltered and finally free of social reigns and mind-numbing self-solitary confinement you start trying to hold yourself together and wishing that the honeymoon period never ended.
today is my birthday :D