ahhhhhhhhh88-88
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Nothing is everything most of the time.
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btw a lot of harry styles looks hes been praised for being gnc are like. direct copies of juan gabriel's suits
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I still miss you. I promised I’d always mean it.
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I still miss you. I promised I’d always mean it.
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Courts have literally ruled that the police are a gang and not lifesaving heroes. And people still think otherwise.
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Does the sadness of losing someone you love ever really go away
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but how could i not love you when you turned my whole life around, make me feel alive and spark something inside of me i have never felt before?
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How is it possible to feel like not enough and too much at the same time
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I lost my best friend 3 years ago- not lost as in dead but lost as in we only text each other on our birthdays now. Movies and books don't tell you that a friendship dying is like the sinking of a ship, you try to get higher and higher and hold onto the rails and unanswered texts, the captain tries to steer it to safety and salvage pieces of two broken hearts until you're left with memories of what once was. We were friends for a decade and knew each other's diaries by heart, I still remember her phone number and the way she took her coffee. Seeing her in streets is like breathing in a scent you forgot you knew but it immediately takes you back to a summer in '07.
Movies and books also don't tell you that friendships don't just end after one fight or incident, it's like the rusting of a bridge, the slow decay of flesh and bones and secrets. It took weeks, months- until one day I woke up and I realized I hadn't thought of her in a while. And I wrote a poem that day and I titled it 'The dying of a best friend' and I put all my love for her in a tiny box with my half of the matching pendant of a dolphin we had and stored them in a corner of my heart under the heading Grief. Where else can one hide unspent love?
It's been 3 years since I lost my best friend, lost as in I still carry our secrets in a tiny box but we only text each other on our birthdays.
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The world is a sphere of ice and our hands are made of fire
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if you don’t like lola lecomte: what’s it like being wrong literally all the time
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