“it was junior year and
i was given a slip of paper
asking what my grades were,
what sports I played,
and what I wanted to be.
naturally, I filled them out,
because that’s what high-schoolers are supposed to do.
the fourth question kind of stumped me, though.
“what are you good at?”
it’s so general, I didn’t know what to say.
im good at riding a bike with no hands, and driving 80 miles per hour on the highway with my windows down and my music up.
im good at pushing people away, and wondering why they don’t talk to me.
im good at listening to stories and seeing the spark in their eyes as they tell them, and feeling fireworks every time I kiss you and hold your hand.
im good at feeling lonely and crying because I can’t tell anyone how I’m feeling.
but, naturally, I answered math, because that was my highest grade, and that’s what high-schoolers are supposed to do.”—rants inspired by a sunday night in october (via twisted—spirit)
“Dear future child
If it’s 3am and you find yourself in a world of complete despair
Please do not turn to strangers on the internet for solace as I did
Please climb onto my bed
And I will hold you until the demons sleep
If it is Thursday morning and you are too sad to move
I won’t force you
I will buy ice cream and we will watch your favourite tv show and I will remind you of your importance
If you feel as if you have no purpose
I will remind you that you were created entirely with love and every pain you feel, I feel too
When you’re sure you can’t go on anymore
I will tell you that when I was 21 I searched for peace at the bottom of a vodka bottle chased by a bottle of pain killers
But that five years later
When you were placed in my arms in the delivery room
I realised that you were why I had been holding on
Without realising it, you saved me, do you know how amazing that is?
So if you ever feel like grabbing that vodka bottle, put it down, we will get in the car and I will drive until the sky turns magenta
I will show you how the sun rises every morning to encourage you to rise too
Sweetheart I refuse to be unaware of your sufferings
As my mother was to mine.”—