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I gave up on getting better but that's our little secret.



7.24.14 // 11:12 pm

7.24.14 // 11:12 pm


It is better to be alone, she figures, than to be with someone who can’t see who you are.

E. Lockhart, The Disreputable History of Frankie Landau-Banks (via soulsscrawl)

exxcors:

science-progress:

Falling in love

this is like, the most perfect photoset ever


masooonderulo:

things that should not concern u:
- the length of a woman’s skirt
- the tightness of a woman’s top
- how many people a woman has slept with

things that should concern u:
- america’s gun laws
- that u haven’t petted enough dogs today
- harry potter named a kid albus severus


postllimit:

why iphones gotta take two million years to turn back on after they die like you plug em in and you’re all ready to start texting again but they’re like “nope. i gotta take some time for myself. figure out who i am. you hurt me too much the last time. let me think.”


at 8 years old
she cried at everything.
everything affected her deeply,
emotionally;
from someone shouting at her,
to an eraser that didn’t work properly.
her parents called her ‘sensitive’.

at 10 years old
she started keeping a journal.
and for the first time
she felt the need to hide what she had written.
for the first time
she didn’t rush to show her parents her work.
pages were filled
with thoughts of despair
and endings.

at 12 years old
she feared meeting new people.
the thought of talking to strangers
made her hands shake,
and her breathing uneven.
her parents called her ‘shy’.

at 12 years old
she flipped someone off
for the very first time.
a boy who grabbed her ass;
when she slapped his hand away
she was called ‘bitch’
for the very first time.

at 13 years old
she developed quite a filthy vocabulary.
‘fuck off asshole’
became her phrase of choice,
directed at the boy sitting next to her in class
when he would start sliding his hand up her thigh.
her teachers told her to be quiet.

at 13 years old
she started getting migraines.
her mother told her to drink more water.

at 13 years old
she stopped playing the guitar.
her father wouldn’t stop asking why
and she couldn’t find a reason.

at 13 years old
she started wearing only black,
because she didn’t want to give people
another reason to judge her.

at 14 years old
she stood naked in front of the mirror,
tugging at her skin,
taking note of every imperfection.

at 14 years old
she acquired a reputation
among all the boys in school
for being ‘hot but a bitch’.

at 14 years old
everyday she came home from school
and slept until 10 pm.

at 14 years old,
2 months before her 15th birthday,
she tried to kill herself.

at 14 years old
her parents deemed her
‘selfish’.

at 14 years old
she was sent to a therapist
who declared she was ‘clinically depressed’.

at 14 years old
she never went back to that therapist.

at 15 years old
she slowly started shutting people out of her life
when they began to show signs
that they cared.

at 15 years old
she started writing poems
about the apathetic attitude
that had become her anthem.

at 15 years old
she was an expert
at convincing everyone
that she was ‘fine’.

days after she turned 16
she stood beside a busy highway
for an hour,
battling with the decision
‘to live or not to live’.

at 16 years old
she questioned everyday
why she did not run out
in front of those speeding cars.

at 16 years old
she didn’t sleep at night.
the sunrise was no longer beautiful to her
because seeing it every morning
simply became a reminder
that she was not like everyone else.

at 16 years old
she spent whole days in bed
because she couldn’t find the energy,
or motivation,
to do anything.

at 16 years old
she couldn’t take baths
or look at pictures of bathtubs full of water
because they reminded her
of her first attempt.
and they spurred thoughts
of death.

at 16 years old
she went to her parents,
begging for help,
because she knew she couldn’t go on for much longer.
her parents told her to try harder.

at 16 years old
she lost hope.

it is at 16 years old that she gives up.
her parents deem her ‘selfish’.


story of a girl (via misplacedpens)

This hits me so hard

(via iwritepoemsnottragedies) It’s scary how most of this poem is my life (via dreaming-of-recovery)

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