It’s like this … All your life you’re yellow. Then one day you brush up against something blue, the barest touch, and voila, the rest of your life you’re green.
You were red. You liked me cause I was blue. You touched me and suddenly I was a lilac sky and you decided purple just wasn’t for you.
You are not sadness. You are not the cigarette burns on your elbows. Someone will hold you like a daffodil and you will bloom the way you’re supposed to, with no stinging burns but with a blanket of freedom.
You are worth every piece of clothing; you need not to be naked to be loved. Your body is not fat. Your body is not ugly. You are not an apology. You are a wonder created, so don’t only tell yourself that you’re beautiful in front of a broken mirror. You have to feel it in the recesses of your skin, along the line of your collarbones, in the exhales of air that linger on the edges of your lips. You have to breathe it.
Nobody has ever told you that your voice cracks beautifully, like a trusty old radio on a Sunday afternoon, and your eyes peel off the sour skin of oranges. Those are the moments when you become an unearthly phenomena, when you are not the scars on your skin or the blood between your lips.
You are a carousel ride from the moon and back and you deserve a star-crossed lover who can make you feel like so.
You have the right to feel shitty like everyone else. Every once in awhile you can smash the telephone and yell you’ve had enough—the phone booth won’t collapse and you can always break down inside; the glass will keep you and your tears will be out. And that is when you learn to love yourself.
You can choose to pick up dandelions and not make a wish, until you decide to blow it off to pieces, but unlike burning lily flowers you do not let yourself become ash. You are whole. You are worth.
But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.
ساکنان دریا بعد از مدتی صدای امواج دریا را نمی شنوند
چه تلخ است قصه ی عـــــــــــــادت
After a while, the residents of the sea do not hear the sound of the waves.
How bitter it is, the story of routine.