People have been clicking like on my posts lately so that’s pretty cool. I never really got likes before so this is new. Okay, so this was inspired by something I saw a while ago, one of those cheesy Pinterest quotes where it talked about people who are asked about love and talk about heartbreak. I kind of like some parts of this, but I’m not sure. It’s good enough to be put up here though. Oh also my next post will be 100 pieces of my writing on this blog which is super exciting! Wow this intro is all over the place.

Redefine love for me. I’m broken, all I’ve known under the name of love is a broken heart and last night’s clothes. Teach me how to kiss sober, without the familiar haze dulling the feel of the other girls he’s kissed. Talk to me, make me forget the hours of deafening silence where I racked my brain for where I went wrong. I’m tired, I’m sad, I’ve never known a fairy tale love where the butterflies don’t come made of lead. Show me how they’re supposed to fly, flutter about, show me how I’m supposed to feel. Love’s been synonymous with heartbreak for far too long. Redefine love for me. Make it mean love again.

Hey another one! I can actually write again I’m so glad! This one was based off of a conversation I had about how different kinds of trauma show up in different ways in different people, so for some reason my brain turned that into this, which isn’t terrible…

People show their trauma in different ways. Some have angry slashes up and down their backs, while others have burns along their thighs. Me? I show my pain in thin white tiger stripes that cross along my arms.

Those with long marks grow up angry and loud, they are broken beer bottles and yelling and car rides that end too soon. Burns produce people who never really enjoyed reality and found ways around existing in it. They’re ten too many cigarettes and 4am texts and a haze in their eyes that never quite leaves. My hurt made me quiet, made me soft, made me watch my words and flinch at loud noises. My hurt made me scared of silence and terrified of what happens when it breaks.

You have crosses at your shoulder blades, deep and painful. Your head’s always spinning, you always feel like the floor’s going to be pulled out from under your feet. You were always reaching out, trying to grab onto something steady, something constant, something real. Somehow, somewhere, you grabbed onto me.

I know I’m not strong, not sturdy enough to be your rock, but we made it work. I ran my fingers over your scars and willed them away, even though I knew it would never work, and you gave me some semblance of hope through something innocent and pure. It wasn’t perfect, we were never perfect, but maybe that’s why our hands fit together so well.