scorpio heart.

And it has been one hell of a year. I have worn the seasons under my sleeves, on my thighs, running down my cheeks. This is what surviving looks like, my dear.

The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.

She will cry. She will cry over you like there is no tomorrow, until her throat is raw and her hair a mess. Her screams will echo through the walls and there will be nothing beautiful about it. She will tear out the pages of her diary that she dedicated to you and swear your name will never again appear on the crisp pages that are so important to her. But two days later the words won’t come and she’ll find herself scrawling your name over and over until the ink blurs and merges with her tears. She will curse you and curse herself and curse the skies for everything and nothing. There will be days when the sun shines but all she will see is rain and clouds, and days when she won’t see anything at all. And fuck. She will love you even though her heart is breaking because she gave you a part of herself that you refuse to return. But know this, she will also learn to forget you, so when she walks by in two months time, laughing and smiling without a care in the world, you will wonder how she slipped through your fingers, and she won’t care. Not one single bit.

The next time someone asks about my last broken heart, I’ll point to you and tell them I learned about irony when the builder burnt down the house.

There’s as many atoms in a single molecule of your DNA as there are stars in the typical galaxy. We are, each of us, a little universe.

She is a year ago. She is the ache in the empty, the first time you changed your mind and the last time you were sorry about it. She is a city sleeping beside you, warm and vast and familiar, streetlights yawning and stretching, and you have never. You have never. You have never loved someone like this. She is your first stomach ache. Your first panic attack and your favorite cold shower. A mountain is moving somewhere inside of you, and her handprints are all over it. Here. Here. Here, you love her. In the fractured morning, full of too tired and too sad, she is the first foot that leaves the bed. She is the fight in you, the winning and the losing battle floating like a shipwreck in your chest. When they ask you what your favorite moment is, You will say Her. You will always say Her.

My nights are for overthinking, my mornings are for oversleeping.

I love you, but I’m mad at you is one of the most freeing, important things you can say in a stable relationship. Does that make sense? To know that you have the ability and the right to be mad at someone and know that it doesn’t mean things are over, that it doesn’t mean things are irreparable. That it just means I’m mad, but God, I love you. I love you. Now leave me alone.

After you’re gone, people will forget your name, no matter how important it was, and your face, no matter how pretty it was, and what you said, no matter how clever any of it sounded. The things you’ve done will crumble and fade and the places you once loved, will change and be given new names. You are only here for one moment and it lasts exactly one lifetime.

So yes I will gladly take on your ocean just to swim beneath you so I can kiss the bends of your knees in appreciation for the work they do keeping your head above water

One day, you’ll just be a memory to some people. Do your best to be a good one.

You will always be too much of something for someone: too big, too loud, too soft, too edgy. If you round out your edges, you lose your edge. Apologize for mistakes. Apologize for unintentionally hurting someone — profusely. But don’t apologize for being who you are.

It’s so difficult to describe depression to someone who’s never been there, because it’s not sadness. I know sadness. Sadness is to cry and to feel. But it’s that cold absence of feeling— that really hollowed-out feeling.