Student of the universe, in love with words and moments. I adore plane tickets and cupcake pants. I romanticize horrible things sometimes but I'm a happy person~
i used to be just like this but once i got into a serious relationship, i didnt wanna show my body off for just anybody. it wasnt that he wouldnt let me its that i respected him enough to not dress a certain way. and now that im entering a marriage with him, i certainly wouldnt wear anything that would give anyone any idea that i am less than married. i guess its a maturity thing💁🏼
I am a guy in my 20s. I've been seeing a girl for about 3 months. I just found out that she has had sex with dozens more people than I have. I'm not sure if I'm comfortable with that. What should I do?
Acid settles in my stomach while dust collects on my heart. It’s been awhile since I’ve let either of them do the jobs they were designed for.
There are still some days when I wake up, look in the mirror, and immediately resign back to bed. They decided to call it social anxiety, but the only things I’m truly afraid of are the thighs reflected back at me.
However, most of my days are wasted pretending as if I haven’t already spent all of my energy getting myself out of bed –
avoiding dinner dates as well as gazes in which might see through my mask, I’m impersonating a girl who’s able to form healthy habits and functional relationships with the world around her. Convincing the ones who love me that I can love me too.
Contrarily, my nights are never spent alone. I can normally be found holding onto porcelain for dear life, my head hovering above the now nonconsensual company of a toilet as frigid as my flesh.
My nagging stomach, nauseous over literally nothing, continues to involuntarily convulse into waves of sadistic ecstasy, taking pleasure in its attempts to rid me of myself.
After finding nothing, once again, my mutiny-charged body finally releases me back into the custody of my memory foam mattress, whom I truly wish remembered less, with my heated blanket and self-loathing to keep me warm.
Finally, I chase down a few pills with a glass of water – one to conserve what sanity I have left and two to intimidate my brain into sleeping.
I wake up in a haze, head rush so disorientating that I can hardly make my way to the scale, which reads another pound lighter.
My therapist says to stop taking everything so literally – that I don’t need to be starving to be an artist.
Doesn’t she understand that I never intended to be either?
