Tell me where it hurts, she’d say. Stop howling. Just calm down and show me where.
But some people can’t tell where it hurts. They can’t calm down. They can’t ever stop howling.

Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin (via tryhowandwhy)

It’s funny how inaccurate
first impressions can be,
but yours still makes me
laugh to this very day.

No, waving your arms about
won’t stop me from bringing
it up. Was the ground really
that interesting compared to
my face? I wanted so badly for
you to look me in the eyes, but
you were hellbent on looking
at everything but a face that
didn’t trust you at first. At first.

But oh, how things change
when you seep through the
tough skin of someone who
isn’t sure whether to let you in.

How things change when you
grow with them and congratulate
each other for blooming after
such a barren harvest. And that
is when we knew there was so
much more to our story. It had
barely begun writing itself.

Noor Shirazie (via aestheticintrovert)

Mother’s Birthday

On my Mother’s Birthday today, I have a theory on cliches:

Ever wonder where cliches come from? “It reflects on your face if you have a beautiful soul.” That’s one for instance. I have a theory. Cliches exist because they are somewhere found in truth. I know why this one exists. It does because there are people like my Mother proving them right.

Not only is she beautiful, she has a heart of gold and a soul made of sunshine. I’m not just saying it. You have to be lucky enough to know her to really know that goodness exists. Kind, always kind. Worrying, always worrying about others. Goodness, always willing to sacrifice and do good for others. Without a thank you.

She deserves a million thank you’s. But the lack of it never stops her.

She’s an incredible woman, a steadfast woman and how lucky to be born a daughter to her. When someone calls me independent, in my head I think this is all because of my Momma. And I’m proud of her.

Happy Birthday to the most incredible woman in my life, my Mother. You really are the best.

One day my words would do you justice. Till then, I must keep trying.

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You called my name like
it was lie you were afraid
to speak aloud, afraid of
the world finding out your
dirty little secret.

I called your name like
a prayer, hoping to be
answered in the dead of
the night when I needed
you even more than I
wanted you.

You were about to find out
the truth because I was about
to find a new religion.

Mahima/महिमा, Losing My Religion

I learned words, I learned words; but half of them died from lack of exercise. And the ones I use often look at me with a look that whispers, Liar.

Norman MacCaig, The Many Days: Selected Poems of Norman MacCaig (via wordsnquotes)

Maybe I’ll smoke my lies tonight,
fill my lungs with death like the
starless sky outside.

How do you quit something you
crave almost as much as your
lover’s kiss?

Cigarette, half lit, fits perfectly
between the spaces of my fingers,
I would say it was meant to be.

So, i’ll bring it closer to my full
lips, trembling from desire,
waiting to inhale death.

Death. Death.

This is where my addiction lies,
the ease and the absurd acceptance
society has given to me to kill myself
slowly without much except frowns.

Now, carrying a noose around is
not half as convenient and would
cause more than just stares.

So I laugh as I light another one,
my fucking personal noose if you will,
because if I’m going to hell, I better
live the cliche of enjoying the ride.

Mahima/महिमाLight Me Another

Hold me like a porcelain
doll, I’ve been broken so
many times before.

Like you were meant to
hold art, like you grew up
knowing you’ll hold a fragile
me one day, utterly breakable
but completely willing to be
broken by you.

Like a practiced surgeon,
feel your fingers over my
cracks, thinking of ways to
fix me back.

I trust you.

Mahima/महिमा, Breakable