Overdose

How could you still being so sweet as if you’re giving me hopes to run back to you while the truth is you’ve left?

I’m here missing you like everytime, didn’t know that you’ve found someone new since the day we said goodbye.

And after all this time, I’m wondering if it’s just a lie, because how could you forget it that fast?

MY HEARTIEST NEW YEAR WISHES TO YOU!

I don’t know what you’re looking for in your life right now, but I hope you find it in this New Year. I sincerely hope you find everything better than you could hope for.

Let this new year bring you the belief that you deserve a lot more of everything you desire & that you are capable, strong & worthy of creating the kind of life you deserve & want.

Let in this new year, you find yourself among others. Let you be able to figure out your heart & your mind. Figure out what really moves you, what encourages your soul & what you deeply crave from your life.

I know for sure that you have a Spark of Brilliance waiting to be set free & become a river of light that changes the world around you.

I pray God to help you find someone who quickly becomes your favourite thing — someone who makes your world absolutely beautiful, someone you choose every single day. I wish you find someone who shows you just how deeply you can feel, just how deeply you can love.

In this New Year, I hope you find the kind of love that makes you want to be a better man or woman, the kind of love that believes in you & supports you, that stands by your side, no matter what
I wish you soon find the kind of life & world that exists on your own terms.

I mean, let you begin to believe & love the process of becoming who you deserve to be, while enjoying all the messiness & the confusions of your present life.

Last but not the least, I want this New Year to bring you an extra share of all that makes you happy, healthy, fulfilled, successful & greatest version of yourself! Good Luck!

— Rajesh Goyal

I’m staring at the wall and I’m trying to remember the shape of your lips and the shade of your eyes, and exactly where the freckle on your nose is. But all I can see is the cracks on my wall blurring into many, and all I can feel is the ache in my throat as I try not to wake anyone with the sound of my heartbreak.

— moondustsandreams, I miss you

December 24th and we’re through again. This time for good I know because I didn’t throw you out — and anyway we waved. No shoes. No angry doors. We folded clothes and went our separate ways. You left behind that flannel shirt of yours I liked but remembered to take your toothbrush. Where are you tonight? Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again and old ghosts come back home. I’m sitting by the Christmas tree wondering where did we go wrong. Okay, we didn’t work, and all memories to tell you the truth aren’t good. But sometimes there were good times. Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep beside me and never dreamed afraid. There should be stars for great wars like ours. There ought to be awards and plenty of champagne for the survivors. After all the years of degradations, the several holidays of failure, there should be something to commemorate the pain. Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster. Till then, Richard, I wish you well. I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water, and women kinder than I treated you. I forget the reason, but I loved you once, remember? Maybe in this season, drunk and sentimental, I’m willing to admit a part of me, crazed and kamikaze, ripe for anarchy, loves still.

— Sandra Cisneros, One Last Poem for Richard

I'd like to be remembered. I'd like to be thought of. The step I'm missing is how to do that without haunting those I've loved. All the ghosts I know aren't beautiful, they're hanging from the ceiling above my bed. The worst thing I can think of is becoming one of those ghosts in someone else's head. I would like to be a part of someone's life in a way they can't quite extract. But every time I've given myself to someone, they can't seem to wait to give me back. I am not a memory, nor am I quite here. I exist in a place between the two of us; nostalgic but unclear. I think the easiest way to describe where I am is by reaching out my hand to touch your lips, and barely getting far enough to brush your fingertips.

I stole your word. The word you used to use all the time. I say it now. I slip it into sentences and laugh to myself. It’s a little inside joke. It reminds me of you every time. You were so pompous. I still think it’s funny how a single word can remind you of an entire person. That should fill me with fear. As long as I remember that word, I’ll remember you. But it doesn’t. I say the word, I remember you, and I don’t care.

— Sue Zhao, An Ode to Moving On

And if you’re going to love me, you need to know that I am a complete mess. I cry whenever someone raises their voice and I always think that I’m never good enough because in the past that’s been the case. I cry whenever I start to even remotely think about my future because I don’t know who I am without this sadness and I don’t think I’m ever going to get better. I love animals way too much so I’m always bringing strays home. I get attached way too easily and I don’t know how to keep a conversation going. There are days when everything is too much and I won’t speak to a single soul so please don’t take offense when I don’t return your calls. I come with a lot of baggage so you should know that I am no ray of sunshine and I am not made of fairy dust and everything pink and sunny. I am made of heartache, tears, and sadness. If you’re going to love me, you should know that I open up way too easily and it leaves me with nothing for myself and that hurts. I let people take pieces of me whenever they decide to leave so I’m hoping that you won’t do that. As much of a realist that I am, I love romance. I don’t believe in a prince saving me, but I do believe in unicorns and ghosts. I always say my favorite color is blue, but if you ask me why, I don’t have a happy meaning for it. I haven’t been to my father’s grave since the day we put him in the ground and that eats away at me. Holidays are always hard even though I always have a smile on my face. If you ask me what’s wrong, more than likely I’ll say that nothing is wrong and that I am in fact fine. This is far from the truth. I am never fine, but there are days when I’m okay and if you can’t understand that then you should not be telling me you love me. I’m scared of love and what it does to people so if at times I push you away, I am sorry. So, I guess what I’m trying to say if that I am no picnic in the park and I hope that you can still say you love me. I am not for everyone, but I hope I am for you.

— (via promisesofamazing)

You know what is so weird and sad? Relationships are like houses and you move into a house and you’re so comfortable in it. And you know where everything goes and everything about it, like this specific ceiling tile always leaks and this part of the stove never lights. And then one day you move out of your house and someone new moves in and figures out about the leak and the stove and keeps the cups in a different cabinet. And you never go inside that house again and if you do; everything is rearranged and none of the furniture is yours.

— (via extrasad)

Why do people have to be this lonely? What’s the point of it all? Millions of people in this world, all of them yearning, looking to others to satisfy them, yet isolating themselves. Why? Was the earth put here just to nourish human loneliness?

— Haruki Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

A lot of people ask me what my biggest fear is, or what scares me most. And I know they expect an answer like heights, or closed spaces, or people dressed like animals, but how do I tell them that when I was 17 I took a class called Relationships For Life and I learned that most people fall out of love for the same reasons they fell in it. That their lover’s once endearing stubbornness has now become refusal to compromise and their one track mind is now immaturity and their bad habits that you once adored is now money down the drain. Their spontaneity becomes reckless and irresponsible and their feet up on your dash is no longer sexy, just another distraction in your busy life.
Nothing saddens and scares me like the thought that I can become ugly to someone who once thought all the stars were in my eyes.

— (via acutelesbian)

Forgive me, I was not trying to wound you with my silence. When I am hurt, my mind ceases all of its functioning. I am a knot of feelings. I wish I knew what to say. The words come out all garbled. They all sound like: you hurt me, you hurt me, you hurt me. They all sound like: forgive me, I am trying, I am trying to forgive you.

— Sue Zhao

If you could read a book about all of the nice things people have said about you behind your back, you would never worry about being unloved again.

I always wondered
what you wished for. 

     What do you think I wished? 

I don’t know. That I’d come back,
that we’d somehow be together in the end. 

     I wished for what I always wish for.
        I wished for another poem. 

— Louise Glück, from “The Wish,” in Meadowlands (Ecco Press, 1996)

I’m glad your sickness is not caused by me. Mine is not caused by you. I’m glad to know the heavy earth will never flow away from us, beneath our feet, and so we can relax together, and not watch our words. When our sleeves touch we shall not drown in waves of rising blush.

I’m glad to see you calmly now embrace another girl in front of me, without any wish to cause me pain, as you don’t burn if I kiss someone else. I know you never use my tender name, my tender spirit, day or night. And no one in the silence of a church will sing their Hallelujahs over us.

Thank you for loving me like this, for you feel love, although you do not know it. Thank you for the nights I’ve spent in quiet. Thank you for the walks under the moon you’ve spared me and those sunset meetings unshared. Thank you. The sun will never bless our heads. Take my sad thanks for this: you do not cause my sickness. And I don't cause yours.

— 1915, I’m glad your sickness

Are they texting you or are they just responding?

“Why are you with him if he makes you cry?” you said.

She wasn’t sure how to respond to that.

But after a while, she said quietly:
“Sometimes he doesn’t. And, when he doesn’t, it feels like he loves me.

“Sometimes it feels like he loves me.”

After all of that, the fucked up thing is that I still struggle to see you as a bad person.