theperksofbeingscared

[theperksofbeingscared]

Time has made me bitter.

Through years of heartache and tragedy,

the heart in my chest has become cynical.

I watch you love, freely

and this broken heart of mine smirks.

You post your mother, your lover, your friend

and my heart scoffs,

“Just you wait.”

but beneath all of the pain that turns a heart as cold as mine,

there is a girl,

hidden away.

small, young and hurt.

When she sees you carelessly love your people,

she doesn’t scoff, doesn’t smirk.

She whispers, “enjoy them while you can.”

Before the years of heartbreak and agony,

my heart was that same girl.

And when she whispers her hopes, my heart scoffs again, rolls her eyes.

Lifts a cold, bitter hand towards the girl, and wipes away fallen tears.

[theperksofbeingscared]

I told him I was lonely.

With crippled hands, swollen knuckles, sticky nicotine fingers,

He crafted, a House.

Filled it to the brim with so much.

rage, fear, longing.

In the House I learn how to behave.

I learn how to breathe so quietly,

my lungs clench.

I learn how to keep my eyes down,

respect.

My throat swells with the screams I choke down,

rage, fear, longing.

the house burned, quickly they say.

In minutes.

the house my father crafted for me over sixteen years

gone.

has been gone.

Now,

I carry the House around with me in my chest.

heavy, held down by the weight of so much.

ribs are walls, filled to the brim, cracking, splintering, under pressure

to keep so much tucked away in the House.

my throat burns

[theperksofbeingscared]

I told him I was lonely.

With crippled hands, swollen knuckles, sticky nicotine fingers,

He crafted, a House.

Filled it to the brim with so much.

rage, fear, longing.

In the House I learn how to behave.

I learn how to breathe so quietly,

my lungs clench.

I learn how to keep my eyes down,

respect.

My throat swells with the screams I choke down,

rage, fear, longing.

the house burned, quickly they say.

In minutes.

the house my father crafted for me over sixteen years

gone.

has been gone.

Now,

I carry the House around with me in my chest.

heavy, held down by the weight of so much.

ribs are walls, filled to the brim, cracking, splintering, under pressure

to keep so much tucked away in the House.

my throat burns

[theperksofbeingscared]

I have built a home with Agony.

Shame and Terror are my sisters.

I’ve stood in the room with Death, felt her breathe ice down my neck.

The day I was born.

I opened my eyes, seeking.

Hungry.

Searching for my mother.

I imagine;

when I turn to face Death, my brow relaxed, hands steady, I am seeking again,

hungry,

Mother.

[theperksofbeingscared]

Sundays

Mornings were meant to be spent with you. Waking up to your soft lips on my eyelids, strong hands tucking pieces of hair behind my ears. 

If I could set every alarm clock I ever own to the sound of you whispering “Good morning, baby,” to me, I swear I would never snooze again. 

I see you in the cup of coffee I pour for myself because I remember that 

Before we met I was day old coffee, forgotten in a pot. Cold and dark, leaving a bitter taste in the mouth’s of people I passed by. 

Because when you’re working a job you hate,

Making copies and answering phone calls for 45 hours a week

People are easily passed by, and coffee, cold and black, starts feeling like the best part of your day. 

The morning after we moved in together I walked into the kitchen with a towel in my hair. I wrapped my arms around your waist and you handed me a mug of creamy, warm, hazelnut scented coffee. 

I smile when I write this because the way you say “Good morning,” to me hasn’t changed. The years we have spent together have not made your hands weaker, or your kisses less sweet. 

The taste of coffee, on the other hand, has completely evolved. 

When you hand me my cup every morning, hazelnut is not the first thing I notice. 

Coffee now tastes like late night diner runs, and road trips, and old music and cigarettes. 

Coffee tastes like warm sweaters, and a good book, and art. 

Coffee tastes like you. 

- (theperksofbeingscared)

[theperksofbeingscared]

The Beginning

In elementary school our teachers taught us to stay away from drugs. They warn us how these drugs will hunt for us, a monster lurking around the corners of buildings, hiding under our beds. 

What they don’t warn you about in elementary school are men. 

Men with strong arms that hold you at night, making you feel like the smallest thing, safer than you’ve ever been. Men whose lips feel like velvet pressing against your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. Men with minds as sharp as glass, whose intelligence strikes inspiration in you. 

You confide in these men, longing for someone to understand you. You tell him how you watched your father tear your mother apart for years. You tell him how you have been taken advantage of against your will more than once. You tell him that you are exhausted, so tired of being scared.

He listens attentively as you explain why you don’t love yourself. He laughs, and tell you all the things you don’t see that he adores about you. Your heart soars, happier than you’ve ever been. 

That’s when the addiction starts.

Out of nowhere you’re craving his touch, his lips, his mind. Your body aches and itches, and you won’t find relief until you are cradled against his chest. He will kiss you and tell you that you are always more beautiful than he remembers. 

One night, you stay out too late. You had gone to a movie with your friends, and did not respond to his text messages. He greets you at the door when you get home, his smell, a mixture of sweat and whiskey, floods your senses. 

The arms that once made you feel so safe grabs your wrists, pushing you against the wall. The lips that once whispered everything you wanted to hear spit at you. His eyes flash with anger, and you brace yourself for impact.

“You are a whore,” he slurs, “A disgusting bitch. When I’m done with you, no one will ever touch you again.” 

His words cut through you like glass. You stand before him, and empty shell, feeling more broken than you ever have. He is staring at you with gritted teeth, waiting for your response. 

“I know.”

- (theperksofbeingscared)

[theperksofbeingscared]

via @extramadness

[theperksofbeingscared]

So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me for I, too, am fluent in silence.

R. Arnold (via purplebuddhaquotes)

[theperksofbeingscared]

My loneliness is a parasite.

She eats away at me, finding nurishment in the loss of my hope.

My loneliness will not be forgotten.

When She rests, my chest does not weigh me down. I take deep breaths, relishing the freedom.

But She will wake up.

My loneliness is strategic.

She knows when I am weak. She patiently waits for my temporary happiness to flea before She strikes, burrowing herself deeper into me each time.

As time passes my loneliness seems less like an enemy living within me, and much more like a friend.

As She has seen over the years, I am problematic. I am leather stretched over a broken canvas. I have chosen to push people away, because I have seen a cruel side of the world. I am safe when I am with myself.

At night I lay in the darkness of my room, and when She arrives I am comforted by her presence. My dearest friend.

- (theperksofbeingscared)

[theperksofbeingscared]

Sunshine Riptide + Church // Fall Out Boy

[theperksofbeingscared]

In another life your name is Eliza. Born into a family that is happy from the core, you grow up knowing what it means to love. When you start school, you feel comfortable because your family has molded you to be excited, and brave, and carefree. When you go to university, you notice that people are attracted to your lightness, drawn to your energy like sunflowers stretching their faces to find rays of warmth. When you graduate you feel free. The world is yours and the possibilities make your heart race in the best possible way. You treat your life like a newborn baby, feeding and nurturing her because you know if you give her what she needs, she will grow to be great.

In this life your name is Liz. You are tired, and afraid and cold. The kind of cold you feel in your bones, an aching reminder of the mistakes you’ve allowed yourself to make. How have you sunk so low? You used to smile, and it almost never hurt. Now though, you haven’t showered in days because the walk from your bed to the bathroom seems miles long. The idea of leaving your room makes your heart race in the worst possible way. Your bed is safety and acceptance, a place where your numbness is welcomed. In your bed, you think about death a lot, what it means to be dead more specifically. You know your heart beats, but the weight on your chest is so heavy that you pray the blood will stop pumping. How can you be alive when you haven’t felt warmth in so long? When you sleep, you dream of a life where you are soft, and gentle and full of light. You long for a reality that will never be yours. 

In this life your name is Liz, but God do you wish it was Eliza. 

- (theperksofbeingscared)

[theperksofbeingscared]

Intimacy

Old Spice Swagger and Herbal Essences Body Envy.

That’s what his skin smells like when he holds me close to his heart

Lets me rest of head on his chest and listen to the rhythmic beating.

It’s always faster at first, when we begin to be vulnerable again

But slows as he settles into the idea that we are perfectly at peace.

He knows how much it helps me to just exist in this moment,

Enjoying the safety in intimacy and stillness

While holding onto the promise that he’ll stay through it all.

You aren’t going to leave me, are you?

I’ve asked this question upwards of a thousand times now

He started using sarcasm after the fifth time but I don’t mind.

When we first got together I couldn’t help but be honest with him

Didn’t think it would last when everyone else seems to leave.

He listened when I cried about them all and told him I wasn’t stable enough

Swore I’d ruin it within the first months because it was too much.

Turns out it’s harder to break things when you’re busy loving one another

If I wanted to leave, I already would have.

My blanket still smells like him even a week after he’s been gone

Work and school keep us separated during the weekdays now

But Saturday nights he comes home to me for the little time we have

I won’t say this love isn’t hard because truly it is

Nothing worth holding onto this tightly is easy

But it’s a kind of difficult I wouldn’t ever want to give up.

Even when we fight it’s only him I want to see when I wake up

We talk about the future and it feels like we’re talking about the past

I miss him when he’s gone but I don’t have to worry if he’ll come back.

It’s his arms I go to whenever I need to feel safe

And mine he comes to when things are too painful to bear alone.

It’s not a perfect love but there’s really no such thing.

Instead it’s a beautiful love that I hold close to my heart

Complex and real with anger, happiness, and confusion

But still my comfort at the smell of Old Spice and his shampoo

[theperksofbeingscared]

My name is one that has not always been spoken kindly,

spat at me through gritted teeth, poisonous words dripping from his tongue like honey dripping from the toast I had made him that morning. 

My name reminds me of tears and clenched fists, 

fists pounding against locked bedroom doors, white knuckles bleeding against cold, hard wood, 

fists trying to open the door to a car that is already moving, desperate and pleading for another chance,

fists grazing against wet, soft cheeks. 

- an ode to my name (theperksofbeingscared)

[theperksofbeingscared]

Everybody grows at different rates…

[theperksofbeingscared]

One must create space for growth, by becoming less.

(via abstractdevelopment)

[theperksofbeingscared]

You will change like the seasons. Be patient.

j.m.n (via jlivingwell)

[theperksofbeingscared]