Our Little Insecurities Are The Biggest Lies We Believe
Why is it so hard for us to realize our own perfection? Why is it easier for me to see the perfection in others while mine remains cast behind drawn blinds?
Why is it so hard for us to realize our own perfection? Why is it easier for me to see the perfection in others while mine remains cast behind drawn blinds?
I don’t remember exactly when my keloid started to form because it happened very slowly.
You are better than them and worth more, hell, deserve more.
My own steady, deep, controlled breaths amplified as my headphones are in my ears.
You know winter holds gray days that take you to dark places, brief bits of laughter book-ended by melancholy. That you’ll find yourself silent, listening to the strains of the National on repeat, exile, vilify, wishing it was still summer because even if your heart was heavy, you felt light.
They were the best and worst of us. And not all of them made it. Some crashed swiftly to the ground and never found the poetry of perfect movement. Others never fell from grace and found a solid landing, slowly, artfully, and with purpose. But they all had a chance. One by one they took flight, twisting, turning, swooping down.
Even when I hated you, I somehow always circled my way back to you. Back into your arms, and back into your bed, back to feeling good for the night then waking up angry the next day after realizing yet again, that you were never going to change.
Amidst the rushing around, she pressed a pair of strappy, black leather Louboutins into my shaking hands, and said, “If anything happens to these, I’ll kill you.”
We wake up and spend all of our time in our heads, and when you’re in between jobs or find yourself with an excess of spare time, it’s easy to fall into the steel trap of your mind and start inventing problems.
I’ve been always into flashy, fun clothing.