Even in a room full of people, want yourself first.
Not the boy who you gave you his sunset eyes
the minute you enter the room with your hands tied
around your tongue, afraid you will say something wrong
about the clouds and the weather in your lungs.
Just forget about your stomach, or how your shirt
feels like a belt around your waist for breathing
too many handheld hurricanes, you do not need approval
from mouths who have shotgun sounds for words, not those.
If you still think you are a bullet out of bounds
this is a constant reminder that you were always meant
to pass right through someone’s bulls eye,
touching parts of themselves they never thought
was beating, breathing, healing flesh within flesh
too thick for those who thought they do not make sense.
Please do not ever swallow yourself whole
because you think the world will easily forget
how you came in small but crying, eyes loud enough
to scream your worth. You are both ends of a rainbow;
the feeling of skin against the creases of your bed; you are
the silence after a firework show. On days like these,
when you have a recurring nightmare inside your head,
take deep breaths, pull your hand out where your heart is.
Listen. There is an ocean beating. There is a story about to begin.
Kharla M. Brillo, Things I Tell Myself at 5:46 A.M. (via pouvoires)


Isnt it amazing how beautiful people are. Like just look at anyone and study them and their features and how their lips tort and eyes glisten and how their hair falls or sticks or lays. How their eyebrows flex and the way their arms fold, how expressive their hands are. The way their body moves and how their chest rises and falls so subtley with their pulse. People are beautiful even if we dont find them attractive. The fact that they’re a living being is unbelievably magnificent.

People always say that it hurts at night and apparently screaming into your pillow at 3am is the romantic equivalent of being heartbroken. But sometimes it’s 9am on a Tuesday morning and you’re standing at the kitchen bench waiting for the toast to pop up. And the smell of dusty sunlight and earl gray tea makes you miss him so much you don’t know what to do with your hands.
Rosie Scanlan, “On Missing Them”  (via elauxe)