These Scars Remain..
My name is Keisha. I'm currently working on trying to find happiness in simplicity. The deeply wounded have trouble with that. This is my journey, keep up if you can(:
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(Source: calendarnotes)


alright listen

just because you dont break skin or use a razor doesnt mean it cant be self harm

just because they never hit you doesnt mean it cant be an abusive relationship

just because you can communicate in some circles doesnt mean you cant have anxiety or socializing issues

just because you have a good day doesnt mean you cant have depression

Do not let your perception of how your struggle should be silence you. Your problems are real and they deserve attention.

Someone can be madly in love with you and still not be ready. They can love you in a way you have never been loved and still not join you on the bridge. And whatever their reasons you must leave. Because you never ever have to inspire anyone to meet you on the bridge. You never ever have to convince someone to do the work to be ready. There is more extraordinary love, more love that you have never seen, out here in this wide and wild universe. And there is the love that will be ready.
Nayyirah Waheed  (via capitainebackfire)

(Source: nayyirahwaheed)

Greatest Hits


Today, this blog’s celebratin’ it’s fifth birthday. Here are the top twenty most-read posts from over the years.

I respect an honest fuck up more than a ‘successful’ person who will never admit to their flaws.
No one really knows why they are alive until they know what they’d die for.
― Martin Luther King Jr. (via psych-quotes)
I’d choose you. Every goddamned time.
six word story (via bl-ossomed)

(Source: sh-ocking)

Tonight I listened to a voicemail you left me three months ago.
In it, you told me to go fuck myself.
I still remember that night.
I still remember those words rolling off your tongue so gracefully.
I remember wondering how someone so beautiful could be so cruel.

Two months ago I called you at three A.M.
I expected you to ignore it, or to send me to voicemail;
those were two of the things you were best at.
You answered and I felt my heart begin to race;
you probably thought it was because I missed you,
but truthfully it was because I didn’t expect you to answer,
and because I really had to pee.
I asked you how you were and you sat there quietly and confused.
It was like you forgot that I existed and that I was once a part of your life.
You told me “fine” and I smiled.
That was the last conversation we had.
I made sure to let go of you, and every negative word that was said, in a peaceful way.

Fast forward two months, and I still wonder how you are.
I still wonder how your dog is and if you’ve seen any good movies lately.
If you ever heard me say this, you’d probably blush like you used to whenever I said something sweet.
You’d probably think I think these things because I still love you, that I still want you.
But that is not the case.
You see, six months ago I was jumping through hoops to please you.
To make sure that you were happy before myself.
To make sure that I was the one causing your happiness.
But it is not six months ago.
It is now.
And now I simply remember you as a person I gave my soul to.
A person I told secrets to at 4am and fucked to feel a sense of closeness.
A person I loved, yes.
But it is not six months ago.
It is now, and now I miss you.
I miss the way you called randomly just to ask how my day was.
I miss the way you seemed to care, even if you didn’t.
I miss the friendship and the secrets and the stories.
And maybe one day things will be different.
Maybe you’ll call me on a Tuesday afternoon and ask how my day was.
These are the things I think about before my eyes slowly close and I am finally rewarded with sleep.
But for right now?
Go fuck yourself.

Wherever you stand, be the soul of that place.
Rumi (via creatingaquietmind)

(Source: shaktilover)

Some people bring out the worst in you, others bring out the best, and then there are those remarkably rare, addictive ones who just bring out the most. Of everything. They make you feel so alive that you’d follow them straight into hell, just to keep getting your fix.
Karen Marie Moning  (via exhaledemons)

(Source: vastpastiche)

I love being horribly straightforward. I love sending reckless text messages (because how reckless can a form of digitized communication be?) and telling people I love them and telling people they are absolutely magical humans and I cannot believe they really exist. I love saying, “Kiss me harder,” and “You’re a good person,” and, “You brighten my day.” I live my life as straight-forward as possible.

Because one day, I might get hit by a bus.

I could be walking down the street one day, blasting Rihanna or Fleetwood Mac, jamming so hard that I don’t see the bus coming. I could be walking with a book in my hand, reading until the very end. I could be paying total and complete attention, imagine the impact before it arrives.

And I’d really, really rather not die with some confusing statement I said sitting in the phone or the thoughts or the memory of someone I know, care about, need.

I know how it is—we all want to be mysterious. None of us want to get hurt. None of us want to look desperate. So we wait to respond to texts, phone calls, emails, Facebook messages, Tweets. So we communicate our emotions in how we end our messages (no period this time? Really gonna get them.). So we say vague, half-statements and expect people to read our minds.

But what if we died?

What if the last thing you ever texted that girl was, “I don’t know, whenever,” when she asked when she should come over, even though you really really wanted to see her right now? What if you were head-over-heels in lust with some beautiful human in your Lit. class but you chose to wait 15 seconds before texting them back, only to never get the chance to text them at all?

Maybe it’s weird. Maybe it’s scary. Maybe it seems downright impossible to just be—to just let people know you want them, need them, feel like, in this very moment, you will die if you do not see them, hold them, touch them in some way whether its your feet on their thighs on the couch or your tongue in their mouth or your heart in their hands.

But there is nothing more beautiful than being desperate.

And there is nothing more risky than pretending not to care.

We are young and we are human and we are beautiful and we are not as in control as we think we are. We never know who needs us back. We never know the magic that can arise between ourselves and other humans.

We never know when the bus is coming.

Rachel C. Lewis  (via anditslove)

(Source: gryphster)

'All I can hear in the silence that remains, are the words I couldn't say.'
Love your mother, the most beautiful person on this earth. Our best critic, yet our strongest supporter. Our paradise in this world.
She is the kind of shaken that makes me feel perfect.
Pale and empty like the frames of barns about to be torn down.
The girl is not old; she bleeds green sapling branches,
beautifully disheveled and harmfully ignorant to how cold the winter can be.
She drinks bottles of wine like excuses, cries at stupid movies.
Good at getting what she wants, better at getting what she doesn’t.
Fueled off chaos, and lonely, and silence.
So she makes every blinking eyelash a collision.
The first day we met, she kissed me, drunkenly like high-school.
I couldn’t taste it then, but her chest is a hallway, her head is detention.
There is something burning behind her pupils,
but her eyes sit like nicotine filters.
Don’t give her matches; she will light them.
Don’t give her sweat; she will drink it, she will break you.
Left alone she will shatter your teacups, and ash on your loveseat.
Sit shotgun as you drive on your guilt-trips.
Switch faces like Shakespeare masks.
She will hang up, stare dirty, and laugh crazy.
She will wake in the middle of moonlight,
steal you away from dreams of yellow leaves and iridescence.
Holding her mistakes as paint-brushes as the blood drips solar-systems
on the kitchen tile.
She will smile like empty clock faces,
laugh like the bottom of vodka bottles,
apologize for overshooting eleven stitches.
No. You cannot have a cigarette.
I wish I was the one with the needle and thread,
sowing with insurance paid fingers her miscalculations,
I would hem her hands over themselves so she would know what it felt like to be helpless.
Embroider the word “Consequences” into her forearm.
She wears manipulation lipstick.
She thinks because shes a psych major, she can sweet talk the doctors.
But girl, right now there is someone being paid to check up on you hourly.
So take the attention. Take the white walls and white linens. Take being lonely, and you’re alone.
Take being sober in a hospital ward.
I cannot carry you. My head is heavy enough.
This world is gonna lose you, around and around in traffic circles.
So take each person as a road map, we are not pit-stops, or bathroom breaks.
Every day your faith is gonna dare your heart to stop beating, trick your eyes into crossing,
reality is gonna mug you in the middle of the street, steal back what you think the world owes you.
Please stop saying you’re sorry.
Responsibility will come easy, the hart part is keeping it;
owning it like the fingerprints on the bottle, or the bloodstains on the blanket.
No, I’m not laughing.
No, this isn’t funny.
Your ribcage is a harness, if you let it, life will hang you.
I cannot catch you.
I can barely stand to watch you fall.
Sierra DeMulder 1:00 AM (via andtherestofheavenwasblue)