Stage One: You only trust others in the way small animals trust humans: you take flight as often as you can and leave them with the taste of feathers in their mouths. You do not bring people to where the nest of your heart is, others do not get access to where the broken eggshells of your soul lay scattered around. Instead you are bright white smiles and laughter and a wit so sharp a lover could cut themselves on it. This is a mask so well-fit that recently one of your friends said, “You’re like the happiest person I know,” and you didn’t even flinch.

Stage Two: They somehow stay around long enough that they notice your wings are clipped and you limp when you walk. They ask and you give answers that sashay away: “It was a long time ago,” “Don’t worry about it,” “You should see the other guy.” They can smell the blood but they don’t know where it’s leaking from. You are learning to let them in but goddamn it’s dark in here and you know better than to turn on the lights so they stand on your front porch and knock at your door and you pretend you’re not home. You say to yourself “they just think I’m broken and they’re looking for someone to fix they have no idea how bad it is.”

Stage Three: in the back of class or before a movie or in the middle of the woods, you slip up and they see it. it’s always something different. sometimes they catch the way your eyes turn dead when you think nobody is looking, sometimes it’s your sleeves riding up, sometimes it’s the untouched lunch. they bring it up or maybe they don’t but it kills you that they know. a lot of them ask if you’re okay and you say “yeah, of course” and then that’s the last you talk of it.

Stage Four: for some reason, they stick around even though your presence is poison and slowly staining them. they become your lighthouse, your breadcrumbs, your way home. you think maybe it’s time to open up but when you do, invariably you’re drunk or high or dead tired because even though you love them you would never be in your right mind to admit to the demons. you spill out of your outline, just a little at a time. they learn you, they watch you, they keep you sane, and then in the late night, you finally make that mistake and fill their ears with your story from start to finish and have to deal with the look that crosses their faces.

Stage Five: I actually don’t know what it’s like to be with someone who knows all of you and yet doesn’t leave. If you find out, please get back to me.

I told him everything about my past. He promised he would be different than the rest; he wouldn’t leave. But I can feel him distancing himself from me. They are never different.” /// r.i.d (via inkskinned)
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I hate you for betraying me
but mostly, I hate myself for trusting you,
I hate myself for letting you in, I hate myself
for believing you wouldn’t plant wounds that my tears would water.

"It hurts so deeply my lungs have trouble working." // k.c.w. (via dreamingtravesty)
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Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (via feellng)
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Hurting someone can be as easy as throwing a stone in a sea, but do you have any idea how deep it can go?

(via spasi-i-sahrani)
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