Vel

My therapist once told me, “You are the guiltiest feeling person I’ve ever met” and just to prove her right, I took it to heart. An astrologer said, “You have so much water in your chart. What is it like to feel the emotions of every single person alive, everyday?” and I wept because I sensed he was displeased. A teacher told my parents “She’s very sensitive. Far more than the other kids in her class.” I took my SATs at 9 years old, but they encouraged my mother to hold me back because of how my eyes glistened when I heard the word no. She told them to go to hell. So I cried my way through my education until high school when they said “You take everything so personally, you’ll never survive in a company environment. You wouldn’t make a good employee.” So I employed myself (out of spite or…necessity) and then later, I hired 200 people. A boyfriend told me “Don’t be so dramatic, everything isn’t a movie.” Fine, so it’ll be an album then. The doctor said “This shouldn’t hurt a bit.” I tread daily on a minefield that leaves me classifying the variations in footsteps, the tonality in voice, a change in breath. “Is everything okay? You seem mad” is my pledge of allegiance to this tightly wound bundle of flesh. I am cut open, butterflied and flayed, with every single nerve exposed like live wires and, yes, they all hurt to touch. Each interaction is a litmus test of how well liked I am, and therefore how worthy to live. I wake up every morning and the moral barometer resets, T-minus 12 hours to prove to myself that I am not the bad person I believe I must be. Sleep, repeat. An amnesiac nightmare. Prometheus on a rock and the gull in my guts is myself. I once envied those with greater armor, but not anymore. “Why do you care so much?” Guard yourself from the little grievances, but the shield does not differentiate. The space where I am vulnerable to the pain that passes through is an entry point for the microscopic good that others may miss. I live in technicolor torment. If I could do it over again and choose the comfortable grey, I would seize a knife and cut the little keyholes back into my every limb. So the light can get in.

the reason why we blurt out i love you's online excessively is because we don't have a lot of ways to show our affection and adoration. we cannot hug each other, we cannot see each other laugh or cry, we cannot hold hands, we cannot prepare food or draw on each other's hands. you cannot kiss their forehead and tell them by holding their shoulders and looking into their eyes, that you are here. you cannot lend a hand in any physical chore that your internet friend is performing, you cannot bring them warm water in the morning or make tea for them. you cannot water their indoor plants or sit with them under the sun and just talk. we are so far away, there are only a few ways that we can let the other person know that we love them. we prepare playlists, we prepare moodboards, we make posts for them. we say i love you excessively because we cannot act the love that we want them to receive.

“Mine.” “Yours.” Is the cutest exchange ever like it makes me soft

"ours" "us" "we" makes me wanna cry

bitches be like, “I’m into nerds” and then go fall for a mysterious dark haired villain from a fictional series

i'm a social vegan - i avoid meet.