je ne savais pas


Come stop your cryin’
and we’ll be alright
Just take my hand, hold it tight.
I will protect from all around you, 
I will be here dont you cry.
For one so small, you seem so strong.
My arms will hold you keep you safe and warm,
This bond between us cant be broken,
I will be here dont you cry

“I am made for autumn. Summer and I have a fickle relationship, but everything about autumn is perfect to me. Wooly jumpers, Wellington boot, scarves, thin first, then thick, socks. The low slanting light, the crisp mornings, the chill in my fingers, those last warm sunny days before the rain and the wind. Her moody hues and subdued palate punctuated every now and again by a brilliant orange, scarlet or copper goodbye. She is my true love.” ― Alys Fowler

for the fifth time this month
you say you’re going to leave him
he calls you a cunt over the phone
then walks the three miles to your house
and kisses your mouth until the word is just
a place on your body.
i don’t know what brings broken people together
maybe damage seeks out damage
the way stains on a mattress halo into one another
the way stains on a mattress bleed into each other.
— Warsan Shire  (via 5000letters)

so this is how it begins—
everything starts to look like
a clenched fist—even the stars.
and then your mouth starts to fill with
something that tastes like shame.
this isn’t the way you were supposed to live.
your mouth wasn’t made to say the words
"i can’t go on anymore," and you know that,
but knowing just isn’t enough sometimes.
you forget the time somebody told you that
your hair looked great. instead, you remember
the chafing feeling in your stomach
when you were the only person who wasn’t
called to come out that saturday evening with your friends.
you feel like you’re drifting through your own life
like you’re a visitor or worse, a phantom,
and you try to find somebody with hands bigger than yours.
well don’t.
don’t do that.
don’t hold somebody simply because
they are the closest thing you have to a gun,
or because the fist at the end of their words
lets you dwell in a pain less awful to the one
that’s gnawing at the bones in your arms.
but don’t get the wrong idea here.
this isn’t a song telling you to stand up and fight,
there are enough of those.
this is a song saying that sometimes we fall apart—
it’s saying that sometimes it’s what we do best,
but it’s saying that sometimes it doesn’t have to be.
— Salma Deera, “A Song About Falling Apart” (via writingwillows)

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