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"They say there are five stages of grief.
The first is when I wait for you to come home even though it’s 4.37am. I wait for you for a month, and I save portions for your dinner.
The second is when I break all the cups you’ve used. I tear up all the sheets you’ve slept on. I scream at the walls for not warning me.
The third is when I call and say, can we be friends? I cooked your favourite, will you come over for a last supper?
The fourth is when you say no and I finish eating five tubs of ice cream in an hour. It’s when I lay in bed and cry over the clothes you left behind.
The fifth is when I pack up all your things and mail them to her address. I paint the walls. I scrub the floors.
We burnt alive, and I was born out of the flames.

"I want to be able to wake up in the morning and feel something. Feel purpose, feel happiness, just fucking feel something. I’m tired of the drought and how it feels like I’m missing a little bit of everything. I don’t want another restless night with the waves coming to my feet and not having a hand to hold. I don’t want another cigarette filled night when I try and try to burn every forgotten word from my throat. I don’t want to walk around and have people tell me the same thing over and over again, “God, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.” I’m sick and tired and drained and I don’t need this shit. I just want to be able to wake up in the morning and fucking feel something."

- 1 hour in and I’m already over today (via h0pefulkid-withaninkedupheart)

"Here is what I know: You drink your coffee black and we are afraid of each other. Once you kissed my neck in front of your friends and it made me very shy. Once you kissed my stomach and I started crying. I see the tender way you touch things and want to kiss your nose but I keep my mouth to myself. Your collarbones are craters big enough to fit my fist into. You are the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in months. I was not good to the last person I loved so I punished my heart (I let it break and bleed out then roughly sewed it back together.) It is hard to write poems when I only know how to fuck you. I am always trying. I am thinking of Somedays. I am saying goodbye. You asked why I never write anything honest so I am writing you this."

- Clementine von Radics (via rarararambles)