peripheral vision could not envision
— Jason Mraz
I dare you to write about a girl and a boy who DON’T fall in love.
Be creative with it.Love is great and all but what about the girl/boy who doesn’t get the boy/girl? (or doesn’t want to) How is their life? Do they follow their passions? Bonus points if a boy and girl are friends and there isn’t an element of unrequited love. Double bonus points if two boys and a girl are friends and there isn’t some sort of triangle going on.
Think outside the box!
And don’t forget to tag I dare you to write if you’re brave enough to publish it
Grant Snider, Literary Devices
there is nothing romantic about
- not knowing you’re beautiful
- loving someone until they learn to love themselves
please stop romanticizing low self esteem.
it’s one thing to love a person who happens to have low self esteem
it’s another thing to frame low self esteem as a desirable trait.
"If i knew all the words, I would write myself out of here."
— Jason Mraz (0% Interest)
posted 20 hours ago
with 2 notes
the girl in stilettos.
if i could, i would hide under makeup and pretty dresses forever. everyone would call me beautiful because they wouldn’t be able to see the girl underneath who wraps herself in layers and layers of sheer fabric. and i wouldn’t be able to see her either, and her absence would make me feel stronger.
i would wear stilettos every time i stepped outside, even with sore feet. but by that time, a boy would’ve carried me to a strange apartment building filled with wide eyed girls who choke on cigarettes in the darkness. he’d exhale smoke and i’d inhale his poisoned loveliness and we’d breathe in perfect harmony, our lungs both dead and broken. and he’d lead me in and leave my shoes outside where a girl in a red dress would be able to take it, and then use the heel to stab pretty boys to death.
i would wake up outside the building, hair in messy clumps and mascara and love bleeding down my cheeks. i’d sit up, stare at the blue sky, and then rub kisses off my lips with bright red lipstick. my dress would be in tatters but i’d smooth it down anyway. and then i’d walk bare feet alongside the building until i found a pair of stilettos, the tips of the heels painted red.
and then i’d put them on and do it all over again.
i would wear stilettos every time i stepped outside, even with sore feet. but by that time, a boy would’ve carried me to a strange apartment building filled with wide eyed girls who choke on cigarettes in the darkness. he’d exhale smoke and i’d inhale his poisoned loveliness and we’d breathe in perfect harmony, our lungs both dead and broken. and he’d lead me in and leave my shoes outside where a girl in a red dress would be able to take it, and then use the heel to stab pretty boys to death.
i would wake up outside the building, hair in messy clumps and mascara and love bleeding down my cheeks. i’d sit up, stare at the blue sky, and then rub kisses off my lips with bright red lipstick. my dress would be in tatters but i’d smooth it down anyway. and then i’d walk bare feet alongside the building until i found a pair of stilettos, the tips of the heels painted red.
and then i’d put them on and do it all over again.
saving beautiful.
he’s going to europe next year and he says he’ll bring you back something beautiful. paris will fly him to a world of lovely roses and song and he’ll take pictures of himself smiling without you, but you’ll know not to believe that smile.
everyone else will believe it, you know they will. all they need to do is keep tipping alcohol into their hearts and then they’ll be fine. he’ll drink, too, and maybe he’ll dream of you in his delirium. but you hope he won’t because you’re scared that he might realise how inadequate you really are.
you’ll miss him. you’ll lie down on the floor of your bedroom and stare at that white, white ceiling and you’ll imagine him staring at the eiffel tower, high up above him. you’ll smile with the thought, and at the same time, he’ll be at the top of that tower, eyesight so blurry with your own crystals, crystals that you thought were never enough.
(at least you were right about that.)
he’ll come home early and you’ll see him and start laughing. and then, finally, crying. and you won’t believe it, but he’ll there, although not in the right way. and you’ll start screaming so loud that a boy will tape your mouth shut, and then your heart. but you’ll keep screaming, your voice eating away at the world when they lower his coffin.
(he went to europe last year and he said he’d bring you back something beautiful, but his eyes are too cold to be lovely anymore.)
everyone else will believe it, you know they will. all they need to do is keep tipping alcohol into their hearts and then they’ll be fine. he’ll drink, too, and maybe he’ll dream of you in his delirium. but you hope he won’t because you’re scared that he might realise how inadequate you really are.
you’ll miss him. you’ll lie down on the floor of your bedroom and stare at that white, white ceiling and you’ll imagine him staring at the eiffel tower, high up above him. you’ll smile with the thought, and at the same time, he’ll be at the top of that tower, eyesight so blurry with your own crystals, crystals that you thought were never enough.
(at least you were right about that.)
he’ll come home early and you’ll see him and start laughing. and then, finally, crying. and you won’t believe it, but he’ll there, although not in the right way. and you’ll start screaming so loud that a boy will tape your mouth shut, and then your heart. but you’ll keep screaming, your voice eating away at the world when they lower his coffin.
(he went to europe last year and he said he’d bring you back something beautiful, but his eyes are too cold to be lovely anymore.)
"I am afraid of getting older… I am afraid of getting married. Spare me from cooking three meals a day—spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote. I want to be free… I want, I want to think, to be omniscient… I think I would like to call myself ‘The girl who wanted to be God.’"
— Sylvia Plath, written in 1949 at age 17 (via wiltinglikearose)
