Little Honesties

i'm much more honest when i write. i'm self-destructive and this is something better to do with my hands. (all numbered posts written by me.)

Every person I tell about you says you’re perfect for me.

my mother once told me
that falling in love
felt the same
as falling asleep

my grandmother once told me
that falling asleep
felt the same
as dying

my grandmother,
she didn’t understand
when i told her
i knew what that felt like

—th, love is a dying thing (via samshalo)

(via suziqsmith)

It’s 3:42 in the morning and I want to text you and pour out my soul and say “good god I miss you like a bullet hole” but the truth is I miss who you were and what we had and nether of those things is coming back and if I was to call you right now it wouldn’t change a thing because you’ve become a stranger to me and the person I love doesn’t exist anymore and the happiness we shared might as well have been a dream because

even though you have his smile and his laugh and the way he always runs his hands through his hair: it’s all completely wrong. somehow, the boy I love is gone.

I miss him more than anything but I don’t really want to see him again.” /// r.i.d
(via inkskinned)

(via losingcontrolofmyself)

Listen, little spider, you are not big enough to eat the moths I am growing in my heart.


This year began with your lips and ended with my fingertips aching from beating down notes asking you to come home.

Where most people built homes, you built a hole. You told me “someday. I swear” but then quietly left through the exit in my chest.

I promised I would leave you for my art.

Happy Anniversary for one year spent apart from me.

I question why you would do this to me, but it all comes down to: if you loved me like you claimed, you wouldn’t. I know this, because I wouldn’t do this to you. And I have loved you an ocean in between, a year in between, and still haven’t done this to you.


It will reach a time when I will be
better at tracing the cracks
in the walls of places I barely know
instead of tracing the
lines of freckles on your skin.
I will know the sound of
the creaking houses in strange lands
better than I will know the sound
of your voice.
The version of you left
became a monster that outgrew itself
the day I found out you actually were one.

When he leaves you,
your skin will try to
leave your body
to go with him.
When he leaves,
you will cry for weeks,
your bedroom will
become the ocean
& you won’t be able
to stop from drowning
in the waves of empty sheets.
You will renounce all gods
& try to sell trinkets to your demons.
All your plants will die & you will
either eat nothing or everything,
you’ll perpetrate hate crimes
against your own body.
When he leaves, you will learn
that all those things you thought
you knew about grief were wrong,
your feet will sink into sand
& it’ll take you months to move again.
When he leaves, you won’t know
what to do with freedom, you’ll
have forgotten that your ribs
are not cities he governed,
you’ll beg to be oppressed
& not remember the names
of people you once called friends,
but when he comes back
a month or four or five
down the road, or maybe
it’ll take three years, but he will
come back, men like him always do,
you will have learned how to say no,
that freedom was actually
what you meant to wish for
when you blew out all of those
candles on your last birthday.
You will close your eyes,
you will walk away.

Moriah Pearson, you aren’t going to want him forever (via mooneyedandglowing)