Actually, it’s fine if you don’t want me.
Actually, it’s fine if you don’t want me.
Actually, it’s fine if you don’t want me,
and I am watering my plants
on Saturday morning like,
actually it’s fine, whatever you’re hiding,
whatever you don’t like about me. Actually,
play the tortured soul. And I will be on my hands
and my knees
And I will be soaking up your tears.
Your blood will be on my hands and I will be washing
it down the sink.
It’s fine,
I understand
I am cleaning rings from my fingers,
it’s fine,
no one wants me. And I am shaving off hair, and it’s fine.
And I want you every night
but I give girls I love advice
on how to kiss you,
how to ditch you. And I tell them I don’t mind
when they fuck you in my bathroom. I get him drunk.
I get him high. I tell my friends I hate him.
In my bedroom, I puke up dinner
and fall asleep nauseous: imagining him in my living room.
I imagine myself making space for him.
In the morning, I hug my best friend and pretend
he isn’t living
more than a mile away. I cry all day
and portray it as laughing. There is never enough time
to know he’ll never love me.
I cut it out. And this is the end of a story.
by Mistakes I Made While Drunk Part III; by Hannah Beth Ragland (via avvfvl)

(Source: allmymetaphors, via avvfvl)

Eyes. Those damn eyes fucked me forever.
by Charles Bukowski (via feellng)

(Source: feellng, via xoxtilxwexoverdose)