Is it just me or you don’t really realise how drunk you are until you are in a bathroom alone???
ME EVERY SINGLE TIME.
*sitting on toilet*
"Holy shit I’m drunk"
Sunset is no metaphor for beginning, but that island, that summer, was all they ever were. When she refused to wash her hair for fear of disturbing the smell of the sea locked in its burgeoning dreadlocked strands; when her skin was browned by sun and softened by sand. He traced love with his toe and they shared smiles both bittersweet and laced with secrets.
“I’m afraid I don’t love you,” she said.
“Give it time,” he said.
And so she did. They did. They leaned against the pylons of the pier and drifted off and away. They loved as the tide came in and the ocean hissed beneath them. They were young and they were trouble and they knew nothing — but nothing exists outside the eyes of lovers locked in the latent lumination of souls glowing for each other. They knew it would end, as everything this perfect must.
Beauty only exists on the fringes, where the fabric of focus is frayed and colors are grayed — where you’re licked back to life by the metallic taste of fear-tipped tongues.
Perfection doesn’t lie in lack of balance or failure of patience; but then, love is never perfect. Sometimes, love tastes like salt water. Sometimes, love feels like the split ends of sun-dried sandy hair. But usually, it feels like jumping head first. Usually, it lives in moments that run away and become memories, gaping and gawping into the night. It may live on in songs and starshine, but it was never really there.
She knew all of that when she said “Don’t fall in love with me.”
“Too late,” he said, although he knew all of that too.
In my mind, there will never be a miscarriage of this moment. I have wrapped words around it and I will never let it go. I only lived it once, but I’ve read it a thousand times.
And I read it still.
You remember too much,
my mother said to me recently.
Why hold onto all that?
And I said,
Where do I put it down?
Do not fall in love. When he walks into your life, do not be fooled. His appearance will be so deliberate that you will believe he was penned in to be your hero. He will excite you with his riddles and you will find wonder in his pretentious philosophies. Do not wrap yourself around his world. This is not a novel. He is not your hero.
Don’t you dare fall into his eyes or romanticize his walk. When he smiles, you will pledge your existence to his happiness. Fight that. Do not compare his face to Wilde’s romantic prose or expect his hands to mold your story.
When he touches you, your body will ignite and you will know ingenuous fulfillment. Your soul will adapt to his, and anyone else will forever feel infidelious. In this boy, you will find all the passion you had read about for the past 10 years. He will make you believe in happy endings and conquered villains. Do not fall for this. Whatever you do, do not let him in.
He will never be able to love you like you love him. He did not learn from Austen or Twain. This boy did not dream of the submission Roark lived for. He does not know how to invest himself into something bigger. Instead, he will hungrily take everything you have. When he leaves, he will take your religion with him.
Do not expect concrete loyalty or resolute bravery. He is not Heathcliff and this is not a novel. He will be weak and he will make mistakes. And again. And again. Do not forgive these flaws because you are dying to make him your protagonist. He cannot save you. He won’t care enough to.
Do not find your faith in his body. Do not find poetry in the angles of his chest, or art in his laughter. When he looks at you, you will stay up all night writing and rewriting a composition that adequately translates the worship you feel for him. You will fail. But this will not matter to him, because words will never mean as much to him as they do to you.
So he will be reckless. He will throw around sentences that will kill you. His lips will repair the damage and awaken your soul - until he sheepishly kills you again. He will not understand that words are your most faithful ally. He will not understand why each syllable screamed at a fight at 3 in the morning has substance. He will not understand the value that exists in a confession of love. He will make you cry harder than any tragedy ever written. He will then make you laugh louder than any comedy ever could.
He will exhaust you. He will make you both the happiest and the saddest you have ever been - often simultaneously. And as hard as you try, you will fall in love with him. You will crave him and you will need him. He will become essential to your being. You will give your life trying to be his dream and you will make him the exception to all of your rules. Fucking hell, you will love him with every ounce of yourself.
Like ink, the stolen glances will fade. He will read you, from cover to cover.He will indulge in the deepest chapters of your life again and again, until he knows all of your secrets. He will carelessly toss you around and misplace you for days and weaken your binding, After he’s finished, he will want a sequel you haven’t written. And he will leave you to write your epilogue alone.
Because this boy will not believe that love is enough. He will want more than you could ever give him, and he will not think twice about the wreck he leaves behind. This boy will screw you over. He will shatter any hope you were stupid enough to build. This boy will make your life the living hell your books never warned you of. After he is through with you, you will die trying to untangle yourself.
Do not fall for this boy. Refuse the notion of being in love. Stand by your paperbacks and live vicariously through Dominique.
Do not let him in. Do not let him in. Do not let him in.
This made me cry. And nothing makes me cry (via seabelle)
There were nights where I wanted you so bad,
And I would just lie next to your lifeless body and cry myself to sleep,
Because I knew you didn’t want me nearly as much or as often as I wanted you.