Sometimes the feelings inside of me get messy like dirt. And I like to clean things. Pretend the dirt is the feelings. This floor is my mind. That is called coping.
Suzanna Warrenn (Crazy Eyes), Orange is the New Black (via larmoyante)
I’ve said it before but I’ll say it
again, for the sake of this poem.
I am not the kind of person that
things happen to.
I am not the kind of person that
things happen to, so I make it up.
I draw the dragon and then I
jump on its back.

I take a feeling and I say
‘Do something! Become something!
Help me or go away!’

There’s usually a boy. Sometimes
not. Either way, there’s someone
and they’ve hurt me.
There’s someone and they don’t
love me back,
because that’s what I want. That’s
my poetry.

I’m sorry, you know? I don’t know
what to do with the ones who have
already been here, so I pretend.
I play dolls. I change their names
and their clothes and their stories.

Call me what you want. I know
what the truth is. I know what to
put in between the lines to make it
sting like a real thing.
I know how to make myself better.

Still, I wish I could touch my
own heart instead of writing about
what it must feel like.
I wish I could do anything without
faking it.
What’s left to be honest about,
if not this? What’s left?

When things don’t happen,
I kick up the dirt, I blow on the
dust, I shake the snow globe.
So what if dragons aren’t real?
I bet you wish they were.

Caitlyn Siehl, Drawing the Dragon (via alonesomes)
I thought you would fight for me,
I fucking thought you would.
I thought you would fight for me,
Just like I had fought for you.
But fuck who knew I could be so wrong.
Goodbye (via hav3-you-3v3r-b33n)
daisylongmile:

“He’s my drug. When he ignores me I’m always ready to drop him and move on with my life. But then he’s back with a new string of loving words. He’s my dealer and he doesn’t even know it. Am I ashamed? Somewhat. But it’s a damn good high.”
Please teach me what it’s like to feel beautiful,
because I haven’t felt it in years. The last time
I felt pretty was when I was dancing around in
my new princess dress on my sixth birthday,
ever since then I forgot what it was like to
look in a mirror and feel okay. I’ve forgotten
what beauty is after years of covering my face
with this mask I call makeup, and people tell
me all the time that without the black shit
around my eyes, I would look better. They
say I don’t need pink blush on my skin
because when I’m smiling the apples of my
cheeks are redder than ever. They say that
when I wipe off the red lipstick, the natural
stain of my lips are better than the bright
blood color gloss. Yet they don’t know that
every time they say I don’t need makeup,
that I look better without it, it is a stab to my
heart.. I only ever feel confident with it, and
if I don’t even “need” it, then what do I need?
If they saw me without it they’d say, “oh, maybe
add a little mascara, you know, to brighten
your eyes.” So it’s a game that I can’t win.
I just want to know what it feels like to be
beautiful without this paint on my face,
without my hair sprayed in place, without
needing assurance from someone saying it.
i.c. // i want to feel pretty again (via delicatepoetry)
draculahs