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I realize that children are made out of their parents fallen dreams for themselves and everyone else they’ve pushed to the side across the years.

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paper yields a language I can only hope to master

paperarsenal:

Its full of dull colors in symbols, meaningless to so many. Some people make their paper into magic, bright colors and shapes and so, so, beautiful. My paper covered in words I don’t quite understand but love just the same. Some people have ways with words I can only imagine, they flow in…

Source: paperarsenal
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paperarsenal:

Dream.

Come on, when was the last time you let yourself? Your mind is full of smoke stained girls with lips as red as the hearts you can’t remember breaking.

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paperarsenal:

I can’t tell you what to do with your life when I don’t even know what’s happening in my own.

I’ve never kissed a boy or a girl or anyone in between or not anywhere near but I’ve proposed three times and gotten turned down.

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atreacherousword:

Even if I write petal words on paper and place them on flyblown rosebushes, you would not have chosen to pick them up. You held scarlet letters in your hand that you’d rather stitch them in your flesh like sewing an old rugged doll and giving it to an 8-year old kid with an amputated leg. The first time somebody filled your mouth with wine you spat it out and said No, but he said he was your maker and he wanted you to taste good. And I’m sorry if no one was there beyond the steering wheel and the windshield to have held your body like a home instead of a wine auction. Your bones are first prize plane tickets around the world and for once, I wanted you to have that same feeling you had, whenever you make snow angels out of plain white things. Turning them into something other than cold, other than melting flesh and bones.

One of these days, you wouldn’t care about the population of China, or the number of times somebody made you feel like an empty fountain. The fifty pound suitcase on your head will be nothing but paper boulders. You will lift them with your hands like Atlas and the earth, and memorize the beat of your heart like a nursery rhyme or a song by Billie Holiday. You might even believe that in an alternate universe you’re realizing life over a swing set, somebody’s holding your hand even if your arm’s-length away from each other. But in a world of beginnings and endings, and wasted apologies on broken things and broken hearts, you can be happy here too. You just don’t know it yet.

(via pouvoires)

Source: atreacherousword
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atreacherousword:

It didn’t hurt when I tried smoking out on the patio and my mother decided to place a No Smoking sign on the rocking chair. I was sixteen and she didn’t want me to feel like a target board. And yet my skin was entirely the color of a bull’s eye because my father decided to make it more than purple daisy skins. 

I had it coming when the girl’s from school told me my clothes are that of the homeless woman in the street. I was too young, yet my mind understood that my face was a far better liar than my body, so I covered myself from ankle’s to chin. And I felt like a broken television with nothing but static for clothes.

I’ve had countless moments picking flower-like weeds in the cracks of the sidewalk. I wonder if there will come a time I won’t treat myself like one. And bloom out of a wound over the cement floor, out of nothing else but courage.

They say I’m wearing a size-eight skin over a size-two body so I’m not going to be the girl you masturbate to in the magazines you hide under the covers of your bed. I never wanted to be your ex-lover. I wanted to be much more.

I needed to feel my own skin and trace my own scars. If there is one thing I’d like to remember before I pick up that knife, is that I have loved myself to the ends of these words, even if I have failed to do so for the last seventeen years of this life. And have the courage to tell myself that it didn’t hurt.

(via pouvoires)

Source: atreacherousword