Everyone has a threshold,
a limitation to how much they can swallow
and it’ll vary depending on how much they want
a particular thing,
a specific person—
how much it matters to them,
or really.. how much he or she matters to you.
It wears thin, sometimes, though,
even if words are misplaced and they can’t
actually, physically, hurt you—
everyone has a threshold..
and communication is important
(significantly so)
when there’s a lack of the rest.

I always read these quotes that says “once you move on, he’ll miss you” or “he’ll realize what he lost”.

I used to believe these quotes, but then I realized that maybe it’s different for me..
You won’t miss me.
You won’t even realize that I’m gone.
I’ve realized that you’ve gotten so many girls to fall for you and I’m just one of them. Except, I fell harder.. And all that did to me was make me your back up.. the option.. the last resort.. the girl that was always there.

The Girl

I’m the girl who tries to be nice to everyone then gets taken advantage of. I’m the girl who tries to look pretty and it’s never good enough. I’m the girl who acts like she’s happy then goes home and wishes to be gone. I’m the girl who takes harsh words, act like they’re nothing, then goes home and cries. I’m the girl who tries to get her point across and could never find the right words. I’m  the girl who has more depth to her than everyone thinks. I’m the girl who hides from the harsh eyes . I’m the girl who wouldn’t care if you gave me a shitty gift as long as you thought of me. I’m the girl who prays that someone will finally understand. I’m the girl who gets happy over the little things. I’m the girl that people misinterpret.

What’s worse than being blindly in love with a guy and not seeing what he really is, is being head over heels in love with a guy and seeing him for what he really is.

The asshole, the cheater, the guy who breaks your heart over and over again and still loving him, and not being able to get over him.

It’s funny how we have no trouble pouring out our feelings on the computer, baring out our souls to complete strangers.. But when it comes to telling how you really feel to the people that matters most, the words just can’t come out.

Please don’t tell me that I don’t know how it feels to be the “lesser” friend. To be the unattractive one. To be that one girl who awkwardly stands a single foot out of the circle. Don’t ever give me crap about how I will never understand your situation because I do. I know that it sucks to be a part of a group that turns heads, while knowing full well that you’re not really a needed or significant component. I know how hard it is to watch your friends get compliments and appreciative smiles – while you don’t even get a single nod. I know how it’s like to be the odd one out, that you wouldn’t even have to write the word “outcast” across your forehead for people to realize that you are one. I know that it sucks and it hurts and that dealing with it every single day is absolutely infuriating. But you can never change the way other people see you. You only ever have control over how you see yourself. And trying to cope with that is even a harder struggle.
Trust me. I know.

You don’t know how hard it is for me to hang out with my friends and feel like I’m not worthy enough to be a part of their circle. I’m the outcast. The kid who will never belong. The awkward one who everybody can live without. The girl who guys push off. I don’t matter. I try to deal with it – but it gets so fucking hard to do.

I am a girl with a body that does not always fit me.

It’s hard to tell people that you feel like your thighs owe you something for being too big, that you apologize for the ways your hips stick. Nobody has ever seen me any differently, but somehow I don’t think this body is mine. I am a girl with a body like a jigsaw puzzle, with a body I am still trying to fix. I am a girl with a hard body to love.
I am a girl with a body like an accident. I am a girl with a body that feels bloated sometimes, a body that has scars and stretchmarks. I am a girl with an unwanted body. I don’t always get told I’m beautiful; I don’t always think for myself.
Some days, I wake up so tired of this body, so angry at its creaks and moans, hating the ways it falls apart, hating everything, from the cellulite to the burn scars to the acne to the bruises. Some days, I would give anything to leave my body behind, slip it off like the most delicate of silken robes and walk around naked in a way nobody else seems to understand.
It’s hard to live in a body that has never been good enough. I don’t know how to explain myself, other than to say that I’ve been waging a war against my body for too long now. I want to say I’m sorry. I am a girl with a body that needs an apology, with a body that needs healing from all these ways I’ve wounded it. Nobody ever taught me to somehow pick a survivor out of these ashes and tell them to make peace with the killers of their country. It’s hard to live in a body that insists on pulling itself apart, a body that doesn’t know any better. It’s hard to live with this body when it is a universe collapsing.
This is my body — rough, worn, beaten. This is my home, my bed, my graveyard, and I will stand in the ruins I have made of this body and turn it into something to be learned. I will not let my body be a wreckage.
This is my body, scarred and bruised. This is my body, lonely. This is my body, however unwanted. My body —say it with me: my body. Mine, mine, mine.

I’m creating scenarios in my head which I know would never happen. I’m having this so called ‘imaginations’ that would make me feel happy for some reasons. It’s better to have a glimpse of you in my thoughts than to be depressed because someone like you would never like someone like me.

The emotions stuck inside my throat are palpable at sight and sometimes I think I’m going to puke my guts out from thinking too hard. I wish you knew how bad I want to jump off a cliff every time my mind is rightfully occupied with thoughts of not being fucking good enough. For anything. For anyone. Especially for you. I’ve cried myself to sleep a good number of times that I know I’ve officially beat the melodramatic protagonist of a saddening romance novel. I know that I get so difficult when I’m being needy, but there’s a fine line between missing someone and literally wanting to rip your hair out from their roots because you want to be in the place where they are so fucking bad. I probably belong in the latter range of the spectrum, and I keep writing about how it gets very hard to breathe and when I was in fourth grade, my parents took me to the hospital because I was having the same problem. The doctor told me that I only ever get tired too easily. Nothing too serious. What he left out was the fact that heartache could whisk your breath out of your lungs faster than running a goddamned mile.