prettysuicidal
How are you?
No,
don’t tell me that you’re doing good
or that you are fine,
you and I both know that you are so far from both of those things,
tell me,
when was the last time you thought about death?
When was the last time you cried and what finally made the tears fall after all that time?
what is your story of loss?
What words break you?
What words put you back together?
When was the first time you understood the depth of the word “goodbye?”
When was the first time the only thing you could do was lay on the floor and cry because nothing else in the world made sense but brokenness?
When was the last time you really and truly laughed?
Can you remember that far back?
What was on your mind when you got those scars on your leg?
What lies have you believed lately?
When was the first time you understood what “I love you” meant?
Who made you so broken?
Have you even tried to put yourself back together?
Tell me,
tell me,
do you love yourself?
how much of your skin can you find constellations in?
have you ever tried to understand your eyes?
have you pressed your fingertips to your own lips hoping nothing else mattered in the world if your lips were your own?
have you ever made yourself believe the lie that you aren’t worth it?
why?
how is the weather in your heart?
is it a hurricane or a tsunami?
is there fog surrounding your soul?
have you ever loved another more than you loved to breathe?
when was the last time you really and truly believed that your life was worth living?
I’ve never really been good at small talk (via mwanzotena)
prettysuicidal

journeynotintothewildwoods:

thereweretearsinhereyes:

I think suicide would be the best way to die, you’re dying on your own terms, not somebody else’s. You get to say goodbye to your loved ones, even if it’s just in a letter or video. You win a game you were supposed to lose. 

NO FUCK THIS KIND OF THINKING.

Fuck tumblr for always glorifying suicide.

Let’s break this fucking post down. You’d better hit that readmore button, I stg.

Read More

satanxjesus-twincest

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the sound I heard when I was 9 and my father slammed the front door so hard behind him I swear to god it shook the whole house. For the next 3 years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess or cracked ribs and depression pills.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s all the blood in the sink. It’s the night that I spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay, after the boy she loved, told her he didn’t love her anymore. It’s the crying, and the fluorescent lights, and white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breaths and blood. So much blood.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn’t handle getting out of bed. When she came back was smiling. But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can’t fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.

It’s not that I don’t love you. It’s that I do.

It’s not that I don’t love you.  (via extrasad)