büyümek çok korkutucu

if you’re listening this, if there’s air in your lungs on this December day, then there is still hope for you. Your story is still going. And maybe some things are true for all of us. Perhaps we all relate to pain. Perhaps we all relate to fear and loss and questions. And perhaps we all deserve to be honest, all deserve whatever help we need. Our stories are all so many things: Heavy and light. Beautiful and difficult. Hopeful and uncertain. But our stories aren’t finished yet. There is still time, for things to heal and change and grow. There is still time to be surprised. We are still going, you and I

osamu dazai - öğrenci kız kitabından 21, 22. sayfalar

olum ben neden matematik yapamiyorum

its so weird its 4 am right now and i just woke up . ok so, in this dream we're 15 again. august's eating us alive and no one's noticing. we spend the days sleeping on pillows stained with cheap wine and nights on our knees praying to made up gods. im getting sick but idk what that means yet. mom dad have started to sleep separate bedsand my gums bleed every time i say family how many times we have prayed love was enough to fix someone? 10th grade still lives in my bones and it hurts every time i walk. the summer of bubblegum flavoured lips and chapped hands. crying in your moms car and braiding your hair until it looks like a noose around your neck. and the boys always the boys their swiss army knives dissecting pretty girls in parking lots then swallowing them whole. spitting the bones out to chew on later. the summer a friend called me slut for the first time and i forgot how to breath for weeks this is how i remember being young. sitting by the pool at night holding my breath. tiny spiders crawl up my legs to my hands and i close my fists and sit still. mom says let go i try to let go i cant let go idk how to let go no one taught me to let go how do i let go

günlerden pazartesi kız en ön sırada duruyor siyah ipten, ucu çiçekli kolyesi müdür onca çocuk içinden seçiyor bizimkini "kızım gel buraya, ver o kolyeni" önce afallıyor, "acaba bana mı söyledi?" korkarak yaklaşıyor "hocam kolyemi almasanız olur mu?" cok az geliyor sesi sanki yorulmuş gibi "hemen veriyorsun kolyeni" kızın kolyesi için açıyor elini kız kıpırdamıyor "ismin ne senin?" susup aşağı bakıyor sonra "ismin ne dedim" cevap yok arkadaslarina soruyor kızın ismini alara diyor bir tanesi tişörtünden çekiştiriyor kızı, odasına gidiyorlar belli "ne cesaret kolye ile gelmek" doluyor kızın gözleri çünkü müdürün sesi yüksek kız reddediyor cevap vermeyi müdür çağırıyor arkadaşlarından birini "ya bana konuşsun" diyor "ya da arayacagim annesini" o an buluşuyor kızın parmakları ve de kolyenin siyah ipi sımsıkı tutuyor kolyesini "arayamazsınız" diyor arkadaşı müdür sinirden itekliyor sandalyesini tam ağzını açacakken, arkadaşı konuşuyor "çünkü annesi bir sabah masaya bıraktı kolyesini veda bile edemedi hepimizden uzaklara gitti" not: bu şiirden istediğinizi çıkarabilirsiniz. kurgu olsa bile, bizi biz yapan bazen taktığımız kolyelerdir. basit ve manasız görünebilir ancak işin aslını sadece taşıyan bilebilir. ne olursa olsun kibar olun.

another poem by me (siir bana aittir💗 ) -pigtails- do you remember when u said "everytime you do your hair like that, it looks so innocent and cute on you." so if you dont know, we call that hair style pigtails. my father used to do my hair like that when i was seven. or eight. i cant really remember now. but i am sure that i was little. so whenever i wanted to be seven again for you, i did my hair like that. you used to call me with cute names. the names that you called me would echo on my purple walls. ", princess, doll, babygirl, sweatheart" i believed them all with my heart. and then one day. i just stopped being seven for you. i stopped being cute i stopped being innocent. i dont know how did it happend it happend in unexpected time. it was like time travelling you know suddenly i was 17. but i should have been 7 then i figured out that you werent with me anymore. since that day, im afraid to do my hair as pigtails -tanya

a poem by me (siir bana aittir💗) --How how could you ive been waiting for you but you were already gone when i realized you left me there it was dark and filthy you left me there i wanted to cry so bad but i couldnt how could you it was so black that i couldnt even saw anything, even myself i tried to push myself to the outside. but i couldnt. in that moment i wanted your hands so bad. maybe they would reach to mines maybe you could save me then, but it was dark and i was so scared i waited for you. i tried to stay alive, so you would be happy when you come back. but you were already on your own way. you were gone. and i was the stupid. you were the brutal. how could you you are still the brutal and i would have never done this to you -tanya

maybe one day we will run into each other. in a coffee shop or grocery store. or in a bookshop. idk. somewhere. years from now. when we live diff lifes and and exist only in each others past. you will ask me how i have been and ill tell you about my new job. idk im just saying. we will make small talk about the weather as if we care what the clouds do. i will ask about your family and you will tell me they are doing fine. we will shift uncomfortably under the weight of our past catching up with us. your eyes will search for answers in mine to questions that should of been asked years ago. so why didnt u asked me years ago?

Beauty is not long hair, skinny legs, tanned skin or perfect teeth. Believe me. Beauty is the face of who cried and now smiles, beauty is the scar on your knee since you fell when you were a kid, beauty is the circles when love doesn't let you sleep, beauty is the expression on the face when the alarm rings in the morning, it's the melted makeup when you have a shower, it's the laughter when you make a joke you're the only one who can understand, beauty is meeting his gaze and stopping understanding, beauty is your gaze when you see him, it's when you cry for all you paranoias, beauty is the lines marked by time. Beauty is what we feel in the inside which also shows outside us. Beauty is the marks the life leaves on us, all the kicks and the caresses the memories leave us. Beauty is letting yourself live. -Emma Watson

yekta kopan/kediler güzel uyanır 29. sayfa "Meğer her ayrılık, sevdiğin bir şairin intiharı gibiymiş. Beden kendini sonsuza gömüyor, sadece dizeler ve duygular kalıyor geriye. Şu anda tam da şu anda ruhumu silkeleyen öpüşünü hatırlamaya çalışıyorum. olmuyor. Gözümün önüne o sahil kasabasındaki evde -sahi neresiydi orası?- teninin bilgeliğini katarak yaptığın domatesli makarna geliyor. komik değil mi. gül o zaman. sen hep gül. Dalgalar denizde dans ediyordu. Senin omuzların kıpır kıpırdı. Bir metin okumuştun sonra, sen mi yazmıştın alıntı mıydı bilmiyorum. keşke bir satırını hatırlasam. "Buğday nasıl makarna oluyor?" demiştim. Olabiliyormuş meğer, her şey olabiliyormuş. Şimdi dalgalar başka kıyılara vuruyordur lacivert bedenlerini. Peki senin omuzların nasıl?

benim ve sevdiğim insanlarin bazı sesleri

before you go to bed tonight remember there is no need to be stressed. you are okay you have time to slow down and calculate your next steps. do u understand me? your whole life still ahead of you. u got this. even if u fail, u got this. u allowed to be alive. no matter what. u are allowed to be somebody different. u are allowed to not to say goodbye to anybody or explain a single thing to anyone ever. like you can feel like u fucked up or like something but you got this. ure still young. and even if youre not young its not that late. it is never late. and thats the important thing. also! i have endless love for you. and yeah. ily!

idk im still 14 or like something "actually growing up is feeling like i turned sixteen two days ago. i have been eighteen for years. fifteen years olds seem so young. wasn't i fifteen just a few weeks ago? all my friends and i are still 12. to me. i'm closer to thirty than to being a baby. i never got to be a kid. i never grew past eight. i can't talk to my mom. i wanna sit in her lap forever. i want to decide everything for myself. i need someone to tell me exactly what to do. the week is going by so slow. an entire year has passed.

haaaa it's almost summer. im sitting on my bed. reading. it's midnight. it's summer. my window is open and cool wind is blowing. it is cloudy but i can see the moon shining through the clouds. the crickets are very loud but very soothing. my room smells dusty and warm and no one else exists. the feeling never goes away. everything is quiet and im at peace. my mom comes into my room. asks about you. i cannot say anything. how could i. its almost summer

“A big part of being happy is being excited. Be excited for everything - making a cup of tea, decorating your future apartment, seeing a friend again, falling in love unexpectedly, the next episode of a show you like, finishing something stressful, buying something you’ve been saving up for, a new album, sunsets, traveling, road trips, and the feeling of going to bed after a long day. Think of something to be excited about and daydream about it often when you’re sad. when you think you have nothing left, you still have the moon, sunsets, your favourite music, paper to write on, warm clothes, new starts and your cute self. also people!!"

move on but not forget

I read an excerpt from Heather O'Neill's article " Portait of the artist as a young corpse" on 'The Walrus'.

by Erin Hanson "You are not your age, nor the size of clothes you wear, You are not a weight, or the color of your hair. You are not your name, or the dimples in your cheeks. You are all the books you read, and all the words you speak. You are your croaky morning voice, and the smiles you try to hide. You’re the sweetness in your laughter, and every tear you’ve cried. You’re the songs you sing so loudly when you know you’re all alone. You’re the places that you’ve been to, and the one that you call home. You’re the things that you believe in, and the people whom you love. You’re the photos in your bedroom, and the future you dream of. You’re made of so much beauty, but it seems that you forgot When you decided that you were defined by all the things you’re not."

I wanted to read Lana del rey's poem. Love her<3

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lin pesto - haykıracak nefesim

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