kalina, 17

the writings and ramblings of a confused teenager living in stifled suburbia.

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i think i’m going to try to be
more honest when i write,
which is difficult, because
nothing ever happens, and i
just imagine everything to be
far worse than it actually is,
or far better, and in the end 
i guess it never really makes

a difference.

(that’s what i wanted to be.

i wanted.)

i don’t know who
or what i write for anymore.
sometimes words come out
and i forgot i even had them
somewhere inside, 
forgot that i was capable
of stringing them into phrases
fragments of emotions 
running wild in my 
(mostly empty) head.

there was a time when i tried
to force the words out
and i thought my shitty poetry
was good, and maybe it 
read well, or it sounded pretty

but in the end it was shitty, because
you can never force words out
and not feel them
and expect it to mean something.

the anatomy of a flower is shockingly complex.
this i know because i once ripped a rose 
into shreds and watched everything fall apart
shards of red and green and brown at my feet.

i thought it was prettier when it was ruined.

(that is all you have to know about you and me.)

you and i are exactly the same:
always slinging our words across the
fragile silence, hoping that they’ll find
some sort of resting place,
some sort of understanding,
somewhere in the void that 
somehow we’ve come to create.

but you and i will never understand
that you and i, we walk a fine line
always drifting between brash
and outright stupid,
rolling with things we know we shouldn’t say
but we spit those words out anyway.

along we roll, clutching our old habits close
and our stubborn uselessness closer
crashing into drunken nights and
muddled mornings after, holding on
to everything and nothing

(everything, or nothing at all.)

but one of these days
one of us is going to get tired

and you will wake up, or i will wake up
and it will all have been a fever dream—

(everything, or nothing at all.)

The naked female body is treated so weirdly in society. It’s like people are constantly begging to see it, but once they do, someone’s a hoe.
Lena Horne (via africantea)
Tagged with: #REMINDER  #quote  #reblogged  #Very Important  

the nights are cold and clammy,
the days are burning, heavy,
i am all of those things at once

i want to shed this summer slump,
stand up straighter, stay sane

but the blur of responsibility gets
closer and closer and i don’t know
how much slower i can go

i watched the rain pour out in sheets
over the driveway and the lawn
and i wished i was falling just as hard
and just as fast, earthbound

but i am just sitting here, wasting away
my words and wasting away the seconds
pretending that i won’t have to move
pretending that it’ll be still and quiet forever

sometimes i wish i
had been a mover

i can’t write things about love
and i don’t know if anything i wrote before
was about love.
maybe i liked to pretend that they were;
maybe i lied to myself enough that i 
believed i knew what i was writing.

i didn’t, and i still don’t, and i can’t
write like i know what it is, because i 
might never actually find out.

love is ___________. 

(love is blank.)

I hope one day
Your human body
Is not a jail cell,
Instead it’s a sunny
2pm garden with daisies
Thriving because of
Self love.
Alexa Evangelista, “You Deserve Better”  (via shesinacoma)
Tagged with: #reblogged  #alexa evangelista  #save  #reminder  

the boys roll their conquests up
with their sleeves, carelessly drop
some words, and roll
on their way.

the girls whisper about the endings
the day after, and wait for
the next break, sniffing out the next
shattering of hearts.

"did you hear?"
"did you hear?"

one, a congratulation
the other, a consolation

on, talk yourself 
out of it, lay down
in the middle of the road and wait
for the rain to run you over.

(nothing will feel worse,
nothing will feel better)

self-loathing is such a deep hole
to find yourself stuck in, and
it’s the most difficult thing to escape
from, because you dug it—you did it—
you made it yourself, with your own tears
and your own hands, and your own thoughts
and shrank into it until it became a part
of you, woven into skin and bones and
flesh, until every breath you take threatens
to tear you into a million tiny pieces—
until maybe you believe that breaking
is what you wanted all along, and you let
your words and your tears and your hatred
run you over until you really are in pieces,
buried under the black hole that your heart
let fester inside of you until it was
too much to bear.
why i am not intact, Kalina Z.

love is an art—
of lying. 

before you fall in love—
—after you fall in love

you are constantly lying
to yourself, constantly:

"i’ll never feel this way again."

but you will
      you will

and you will invent feelings until
they cease to be real, and then
you are in love with a mirage,
a fever dream that disappears
when you can no longer
make believe.

I heard an airplane passing overhead. I wished I was on it.
Charles Bukowski (via forgingenlightenment)
Tagged with: #oh this hits home  #oh god  #reblogged  #bukowski  #quote  #save  

if i could pretend that i 
have forgotten myself, i 

(but i remember
       i remember)

—there are more and more
memories i want to peel

(but i remember
       i remember)