Oh, but my darling. My heart is tired and my smile doesn’t quite reach my eyes.


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fuckreiva:

i was reading through my journal and i found this one page and it broke me

An Open Letter to One of the Biggest Assholes I’ve Ever Known

You’re not supposed to hurt the things you love. So why did you destroy me? Repeatedly I’ve asked myself this haunting question, night after night for years. Until finally, it has settled in the darkness in the back of my mind.


But now it is back with vengeance. It’s slowly eating up all the thoughts I have in my brain and I’m still looking for an answer so I can finally get out of this hellhole. You destroyed something inside of me that you didn’t even deserve to see. Now I have this empty space where my trust for people used to be.


I’m in love with this fantastic girl and I want to believe in my heart that she will never hurt me. But then you come crawling from the depths of hell and plant poisonous thoughts in my head and it is she who suffers for your wrongdoings. I cannot give her that which you have stolen. I need to know. I need a closure. And you, being heartless and selfish and vindictive as you are, you would not—could not, give it to me.

Am I supposed to stay in limbo? How do I fully give myself to her if you have taken a very important piece of me and refuse to give it back? She deserves my full trust and none of the fears you have instilled in me.

So fuck you. 


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Anonymous asked: You are going to hell!!

Baby I’m already there.

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I want to feel you fall asleep in my arms; when your breathing gets even and there’s nothing but our heartbeats in a silent room. I want to watch you dream and hold you closer, hoping my damnedest it is me you are dreaming of because baby, you’re the one I’ve been dreaming of my whole life.

I want to see the calmness settle in your skin when your mind is released from the worries of the waking world. I want to watch your eyelids flutter as you dream of many lands and many places and I want to settle right then and there with you. And that will be the moment that I will always want to return to. When a slow smile is revealed from your pretty face and I get to watch it in the privacy of our own home. When I know I am the only person who gets to see you in this vulnerable state and I get to see your beauty even when your eyes are closed.

 Darling, I know I’m not a morning person but I will wake up every morning if I know I get to wake up next to you. To know that you’ve dreamt beside me in the same bed, that the warmth next to me was the one you provided, darling, that is better than any coffee in the world.

But mostly I just want to be your guardian angel. I want you to be comfortable in my arms that you can close your eyes and know you’re safe because no harm will ever come to you because I am right there.


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An open letter to my future girlfriend:

I will not be shy on our first date. I will talk a lot about nonsense and pretend like I’m not nervous or that my heart is not hammering in my chest so loud that I cannot hear my own thoughts. You will probably not get anything useful out of me but I promise to remember 98% of what you tell me.

On our second date I will bring you flowers. Blushing pink roses because I think they are pretty. I will still be nervous and I will still talk about but a bit calmer this time. I will quite possibly laugh at a lot of things.

When you finally make that first move to hold my hand, I will hold my breath. I will hold my breath, waiting for the drop of my heart from your hands. Because the moment you reached for my cold fingers, my darling, was the moment you’ve captured my heart.

I will make you feel loved with food. And coffee. If you’re tired and craving for something in the middle of the night or day or end of your shift, I will try my damnedest to get you that venti caramel macchiato. I will drive to Cheesecake Factory at 7:48 at night, trying to get you that slice of dessert you’ve been craving. It’s not a hassle, my darling, it’s my pleasure.

When our lips finally meet I cannot promise that the kiss will be perfect or phenomenal. I cannot assure you that there will be fireworks or that our noses won’t bump. But I can promise you one thing: kissing you will be my new favorite hobby. And I will learn every space and every cavern in your mouth, searching for your secrets and stories and leaving you love letters in the dark corners you didn’t even know existed.

When we finally make love it will be slow and sensual. I will kiss every part of your skin and bones and flaw and perfection. Then there will be days when it’s light and playful, then rough and passionate. I will learn the way your body sings as my fingers play on the tempo of your skin. And together, we will make a symphony.

There will be minor crushes and exes. I will be jealous and needy and I will need your reassurance. Sometimes, you will probably ask for mine, if heaven forbid I ever make you feel unwanted. But one thing you will be sure of: I will always be honest. Ask me and I will answer. I will never dare disrespect you by not giving you the courtesy should my love waiver. I will let you know and I will fight and I will ask for you to do the same.

            My darling, the only thing I ask of you is patience. Patience to wait for me to grow up and learn. Patience that we both hopefully possess to fight for our relationship when times get rough. Patience for when I am lost and I have forgotten how many times I’ve dreamt of your kiss before I’ve finally tasted your lips and what heaven it felt when my heart fit perfectly in your hand.

            One last thing I must remind you is to remember. Remember the time I made your heart skip a beat and you gladly opened up your chest and invited me in. Remember the time you reached for my hand and how warm it felt against yours as our fingers locked together. Remember all those moments you thought you would never ever find a place in the world more fitting than my arms. I need you to remember those moments in times of darkness and cold and war and when all hope is gone, remember why we fought so hard in the first. These, I humbly ask.

                                                                                                                        Love,

                                                                                                                        Dhain

 


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If’s

 If I lived in a world where you loved me

I will never sleep

Because my reality will always be better than my dreams

If your kisses were real and your touch unimagined

I would never bat an eyelash

Lest I miss a single moment of your touch

If our conversations lasted forever

I will never listen to anyone else’s music

Other than your voice

If only I can stop daydreaming

About being with you

I can actually take pictures

Instead of making them up in my head

If only I wrote

As much as you inspired me to write

I would’ve written a novel

About every single line of your palm

If only I had the courage

To hold your hand

Maybe these wouldn’t be if’s

And my dreams wouldn’t end

—D.P.


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aneverwriter:

They gave me a weapon and taught me how to shoot it, clean it, and disassemble it

I fired 24 perfect shots that earned me a ribbon on my chest to let others know I know how to shoot my target

The first time I pulled the trigger I held my breath and prepared for the impact of the gun hitting my shoulder

But they never taught me how to prepare for the impact of taking someone’s life

What they fail to teach you is how to disassemble the human target

That the enemy is someone’s family, someone’s child, someone’s father, someone’s beloved

That what if in another life that person was your teacher, your friend, your lover?

What choices did they have that they are at the receiving end of your bullet?

They succeeded at teaching my fingers to do better things than to write and create

They taught my eyes to see targets instead of the stars that litter the night sky

My lungs learned how to hold my breath as I squeeze the trigger almost the same way it holds my cigarette smoke a little longer than necessary

I was their perfect little soldier

I cradled and held my weapon the way I did with my lover

Ironic how destructive things need the utmost care like the human beings they destroy

24/7 it was by my side and in sight like a toddler to a mother

Whoever thinks of giving birth to something so annihilating?

I was not afraid to die but I was afraid of not knowing how to kill

They have created a weapon out of me but all I ever wanted was to be a weapon of mass creation

It is funny how in order to maintain peace we must make war

The girl in the uniform is different from the girl in the inside

Inside she hopes and dreams and writes and longs for the arms of a loved one

But they taught her to protect and defend and destroy

Why must she be made for destruction?

I pledged allegiance to the country I loved in the service I chose

I wear my uniform with the pride and dignity it deserves but what of those do I possess?

How do you let my fingers kill but not let it hold a beer bottle?

How do I drown out the faces of the people who will never come home to their families because of my fingers?

How can I sleep when there’s a little girl in Middle East who will never know her baba (daddy)?

The war is not over inside, in the front lines, in North Korea, in South Korea, in Iraq, Afghanistan, Somalia

Name it and there’s a soldier there loading bullet after bullet, winning the war but losing themselves

(via thedaily-twat)


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Remember that intimate conversation you had with your son? The one where you said, “I love you and I need you to know that no matter how a woman dresses or acts, it is not an invitation to cat call, taunt, harass or assault her”?

Or when you told your son, “A woman’s virginity isn’t a prize and sleeping with a woman doesn’t earn you a point”?

How about the heart-to-heart where you lovingly conferred the legal knowledge that “a woman doesn’t have to be fighting you and you don’t have to be pinning her down for it to be RAPE. Intoxication means she can’t legally consent, NOT that she’s an easy score.”

Or maybe you recall sharing my personal favorite, “Your sexual experiences don’t dictate your worth just like a woman’s sexual experiences don’t dictate hers.”

Last but not least, do you remember calling your son out when you discovered he was using the word “slut” liberally? Or when you overheard him talking about some girl from school as if she were more of a conquest than a person?

I want you to consider these conversations and then ask yourself why you don’t remember them. The likely reason is because you didn’t have them. In fact, most parents haven’t had them.

-The Conversation You Must Have With Your Sons | Carina Kolodny (via sanityscraps)

(via seriouslyamerica)


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