1) A boy telling you you’re pretty won’t make you see the beauty in the fullness of your cheeks, in redness of your lips at 2 in the morning when tequila is making the bar bathroom spin. He can’t take away the ugliness that you see in yourself, you have to do that.
2) You have to be ready to hear someone say they love you. You have to be ready, and you have to be willing, and you have to listen. Because sometimes, they won’t say those three words, they’ll put a blanket over you while you’re watching a movie, they’ll kiss your cheek when they think you’re asleep, they’ll smile when they see you first thing in the morning. But you, you have to be willing to see it, feel it, let it in. Letting someone love you takes practice.
3) Don’t make compromises you can’t live with. Compromise is a different version of what you want, not a whole other Universe.
4) Learn to say no. No - to a movie you don’t want to watch; no - to sex you don’t want to have, no- to a relationship that’s driving you mad. Say no - to things that hurt you, to people that extinguish your fire, to jobs you hate and places that are desolate. There are bad things that we can’t control, bad things that happen and we are sucked into and have to feel with every fibre of our being, but the rest - learn to distance yourself, learn to say no.
5) Don’t expect people to walk through fire for you - not your parents, not your friends, not the person you’re in love with. Love doesn’t mean sacrifice, love shouldn’t mean sacrifice. Don’t expect someone to give away pieces of them, so they could fit you better. And don’t feel hurt when they refuse to - it’s self-preservation. Instead - learn from them. Do it as well.
6) Don’t tether yourself to people. Learn to make connections, to love, with both your feet steady on the ground. Learn to let people pass through your life; like a summer breeze, not a storm that’s just been unleashed.
7) Learn the difference between growth and growing up before it’s too late. Rooftops and water fights and ice cream for breakfast can be a part of your life at 10, 25, or 35. But by the time you’re 35 you need to learn to say enough, to be able to walk away, you need to be able to love yourself. Love yourself the way you loved yourself at 10, before the world had a chance to fill your head with ugliness.
My mother married my father when she was just eighteen. Now, while they’re still together, working day to day for their four children, I see the bags under her eyes. I see the stress weighing on her shoulders as she hunches down in her seat. I see her desperate to keep her kids happy while she can barely manage to understand them. My father works a ten hour shift, six days a week. My mother is in bed, asleep, before he even gets home. That’s one day a week they are afforded each other, and they barely spend it together. He grocery shops, and she doesn’t care to join. She stays home to clean the house. And I’ve always jumped into relationships too fast, whether or not it was with someone I had romantic feelings for or just trusting those around me. And it’s never worked out in my favor. I’ve been lied to, used, kept waiting, my trust has been broken countless times, and I’ve cried too many tears over people who hardly gave a damn about me when I’d have given them the world.
What I mean, what I’m trying to say is, I am afraid to love. I am afraid to step into wet concrete and either get stuck, or leave my mark in a place it shouldn’t be. I don’t want to rush into something and then watch it fizzle out like I’ve experienced countless times. My mother was married at eighteen, and if that and her tired eyes have taught me anything, it’s that what feels right in a moment may not be what you’ve always needed. So I keep that in mind, because if I give you all of me right now, there might be nothing left for later.
i will not apologize for being too much for you.
i saw that girl in the dress that fell midway from thigh to knee.
you called her a slut and when i looked down at my own hemline i wondered what you truly thought of me.
do you remember the rosy lipstick that you asked me not to wear because i was “pretty without it?”
so did you think i was ugly with it?
for a month you needed a haircut but i never said anything because if you like it long you like it long,
but then you said “all i ask is don’t wear your hair up, i like it more down”
as if your opinion was supposed to matter so much to me.
so i’m not sorry for wearing tight dresses or for not holding my tongue.
i’m not sorry for keeping the lipstick
or for making more money than you
or for losing my temper when you rolled your eyes at my convictions.
i was a river and you were a dam;
you should have known i would crash through you.
i was the noise you wanted to silence and the pistol you wanted to lock
and no, i will never apologize.
if you wanted a girl you could control, you picked the wrong one. (via sheets-and-eyelids)