“The kind of love that means something is always going to be messy.”
Fuck you for breaking my heart right before I was about to fall in love with you.
Thank you for breaking my heart right before I was about to fall in love with you.
Now, I will not trust such a pretty face. I will not ignore red flags. I will listen to my best friend. I will continue to love me more than you ever would have been able to anyway. I will champion my fellow sisters. I will lift them up when they are crushed. I will send you warmth in hopes that it can penetrate that shell you only pretended I cracked open. I will not wish you harm, though there is a large list of people who do. I will hope this other person brings you what I could not. I will think of you, at a later point, and wonder how you’re doing. I will…
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First and foremost, realize that it’s over. Realize that, no matter how charming you might be towards authority figures and when meeting new people for the first time, you’re not going to talk your way out of this one. As you tend to do, you had briefly convinced yourself that you could push, and push, and the time would never come when the other would say “enough” and really mean it. But they do mean it, and no amount of sweet-talking or makeup sex or conversations that last until three in the morning and involve crying, laughing, and just a bit of shameless begging are going to help it. They are right — you two aren’t right for each other, and staying together isn’t going to help anyone. But it’s over, and it wasn’t your choice.
And maybe that’s the worst part, that you didn’t choose this (which is rather…
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When you are broken-hearted.
When you have a broken heart, you’ll forget who you are. You’ll lose yourself in the hurt of all the gruesome shards that are stabbing against your lungs and stomach; you’ll be consumed by the sickly feeling you get each time you move and the cuts sting and widen deeper. You’ll cry and beg, and wish you were a different person, a more loveable person, anyone but you. You’ll become obsessed with pitying yourself, intoxicated by this pathetic self-centeredness.
You’ll lie in bed all day and sob. Every little thing will cause your eyes to water. The way the light falls across the empty pillow next to you, the tiny specks of dust circling your face, the pile of clothes that lies limply by your side, discarded in drunken desperation the night before. You’ll force yourself up to drag on a cigarette and with each breath you draw, another tear…
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We need your help.
I sometimes imagine that we all exist in two. If not, how then to explain those moments when we get angry with ourselves, blaming ourselves for all the things we have done and regretted? Who is the target of our hostility? Who receives all of it? For that matter, who is the aggressor? When the fight is happening in our heads, it can feel like a mirror broken in two taking up our whole body.
The truth is that there is no escape from this dynamic. We are usually the hardest on those who are closest to us, and how much closer can you get than living inside of you? This means that we usually punish and torture ourselves harder than we do other people, made worse by the fact that we know ourselves all too well.
We are stuck in our own bodies until death comes for us, and…
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“Sometimes I think that love is simply a wish not to be forgotten, and I’d rather be your mistake than nothing at all.”