hello operator.

Well I don’t want to fucking need anyone.
And I can’t decide if that’s sad or not.

every few months or so i feel like i’ve never been alive until this exact second, like i’ve somehow existed in a fog until this great moment of clarity that always finds me either in laughter or in tears, sometimes both. i feel everything at once or nothing at all lately, and i’ve surprised myself with how easily i can turn the switch. i sabotage myself almost everyday, closing myself off from this flood that waits until 3am to find me. i’m not afraid of getting hurt; i’m simply afraid of losing myself. 

when i come out on the other side of it all, i can see my life branching before me like a thousand veins leading to a thousand places and i know that my hands are on the wheel this time, and i am in control. i’ve asked god to make my life into something beautiful, something unforgettable, and after watching a billion potentially beautiful things come and go without notice, i can say now that life isn’t merely observing and waiting for the universe to fall into your lap; you’ve got to be willing to make things happen. i see and feel something beautiful everyday, and i want to spend the rest of my life making other people see it, too.

Read More

I remember I was swaying and singing and you held your hands up to the light and we laughed.

hands are my favorite things. and wrists. i remember hands. i catch myself staring. wrists are the most beautiful part of the body, but i couldn’t tell you why. my wrists are pale with blue trails branching into my palms. they’re speckled with freckles. they are fragile and thin skinned and they long to be touched and held and led away with the rest of me following behind. i think you can tell a lot about someone from their wrists, their hands. maybe we find them so lovely because they hold the key to life itself barely hidden beneath a few thin layers of skin. i like slender wrists and big hands. i like to see the bones when the fingers stretch. i like intertwined pinkies when holding hands is too scary. i like the way they tap the steering wheel to music. i like when the knuckles go white. i like them on the back of my neck and i like the fingers to draw circles on my forearms and i like to watch them strum guitars and scribble in sketchbooks. i like when they massage temples leading to a furrowed brow and i like the way they can make things and shape things and frame a smiling face or wipe away tears. 

my hands are small.

and they want to be filled. 

Read More

I wonder if the images we have of each other are remotely accurate, if the person I have fake conversations with in my head is even a real person. Or if the person you think I am is really me. I’m sure a day will come when we find out how far off we are from what we’ve fabricated about each other. I wonder what image you’ve made of me, and if it’s even close to being me. We each hold fascination with all things unattainable, things that remain consistently two steps ahead, things we know will never happen. It used to make me sad; now it just keeps things interesting. Like a game. As long as I know inside that I am not ready for another person to fill the spaces, I will continue being drawn to those who only let me want the idea of them.

And to be honest, I like dealing with just me.

hands are my favorite things. and wrists. i remember hands. i catch myself staring. wrists are the most beautiful part of the body, but i couldn’t tell you why. my wrists are pale with blue trails branching into my palms. they’re speckled with freckles. they are fragile and thin skinned and they long to be touched and held and led away with the rest of me following behind. i think you can tell a lot about someone from their wrists, their hands. maybe we find them so lovely because they hold the key to life itself barely hidden beneath a few thin layers of skin. i like slender wrists and big hands. i like to see the bones when the fingers stretch. i like intertwined pinkies when holding hands is too scary. i like the way they tap the steering wheel to music. i like when the knuckles go white. i like them on the back of my neck and i like the fingers to draw circles on my forearms and i like to watch them strum guitars and scribble in sketchbooks. i like when they massage temples leading to a furrowed brow and i like the way they can make things and shape things and frame a smiling face or wipe away tears. 

my hands are small.

and they want to be filled. 

hellohollyy:

skatieb:

I dont know why I always pull away. I think I enjoy affection until it’s staring me in the face and suddenly i’d rather sleep alone. And I dont want anyone to touch me. I am just not ready to deal with someone outside of myself.

well, this about sums it all up.

i deleted this the morning after i posted it because i was drunk the night before and embarrassed of my temporary vulnerable moment, but the more i read it…the more it still rings true. 

i ache so terribly for someone until they reach for me and then i find myself pulling away even when inside i am screaming to push forward. 

a hand on my back, your hand brushing mine, eyes lingering a bit too long. it makes me shake. it makes me want to leave. the fluttering in my chest frightens me. it overwhelms me. because it is fleeting and it is finite and everything that has led up to this moment has been temporary and ended with the rug being pulled out from under me and i just want to keep my feet planted firmly. 

i want to be ripped from this stubborn place i have made for myself. prove me wrong. 

(via hellohollyyrae)