Messy thoughts, messy hair, messy life.
All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that’s the tragedy of living.
I used to think I was tough, but then I realized I wasn’t. I was fragile and I wore thick fucking armor. And I hurt people so they couldn’t hurt me. And I thought that was what being tough was, but it isn’t.
If you love someone, you should tell them. Even if you’re scared that it’s not the right thing. Even if you’re scared it’ll cause problems. Even if you’re scared that it will burn your life to the ground. You should say it. You should say it loud.
Do not make homes out of people. This will leave you homesick and sad, missing arms that cannot hold roofs, hearts with shaky foundations.
I guess what scares me the most is knowing that at any moment, you could rip my heart out of my chest, tear it into pieces, throw it on the ground and stomp all over it. And that I’d just pick it up and hand it back to you.
Maybe home is nothing but two arms holding you tight when you’re at your worst.
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And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is’.