— Buddy Wakefield; Hurling Crowbirds at Mockingbars (via fuckoff-mondays)
— Francois de la Rochefoucauld (via quote-book)
— For Women Who Are Difficult to Love, Warsan Shire (via theseliteraryquotes)
ever since i was little, i never let it show when people hurt me.
no matter how much their words would sting, i pretended like i didn’t really care because that was the only way i knew how to deal with feeling stabbed in the back.
it’s kind of misleading, because then people assume i am much more self-confident than i really am. my smile is deceiving. i really should’ve just been honest with how i felt, but i couldn’t stand the idea of you seeing my face crumple and knowing how painfully my heart throbbed. i smiled as wide as i could and pretended there was an itch on my face to quickly wipe away the tears.
it’s a defense mechanism i’ve used for a long, long time. so long that i no longer know how to defend myself any other way except to act like i don’t give a fuck. i’m not made of metal, you know. your arrows penetrate through my skin repeatedly like an amateur nurse searching for a hidden vein, leaving me bruised and bleeding on the inside, but covered up with a big, smiley bandage so no one can see.
i still get the butterflies when you call me yours,
i guess sometimes i still don’t understand how i could be so lucky.
i told you,
you seemed really hard to please.
something about you made me feel like you were the type of guy
who would only date those really interesting, kind of fucked-up girls,
the ones with bruises and scars in places you couldn’t even see,
who looked sad when they smiled and saw the world through filtered lenses.
and here i was. the product of a perfect suburban family. no battle scars, no dark past, not a single drop of mystery in me. everything i had i wore on my sleeves.
i never thought i would be captivating enough,
for somebody as captivating as yourself.
(but you told me, of all of us, i was the most interesting because
everything made me happy,
and you had never met anyone quite like that.
i guess the girls with the sad eyes,
their stories get old after a while, and all you were left with were
the broken pieces that were not your job to mend.
i tried to seem modest, but i’m sure you could see the fireworks dancing behind my eyes.
i’m not really one to hide much of anything.)