“Some people turn sad awfully young. No special reason, it seems, but they seem almost to be born that way. They bruise easier, tire faster, cry quicker, remember longer and, as I say, get sadder younger than anyone else in the world. I know, for I’m one of them.”—Ray Bradbury (via sad-plath)
It has been almost six years now and I am no longer the same person you left behind in the dirt on the morning of my birthday;
I have stopped folding myself into tiny corners to satisfy those that are undeserving of my presence
and I refuse to continue shattering myself to oblivion.
I am perfect.
The air that I breathe into my battered lungs fuels forest fires capable of burning down the globe
and three quarters of me is made up of the water that drowns entire countries into deep nothingness.
Despite tsunami waves of self-loathing,
I know I am a gift from God:
I have been fashioned from clay so beautifully that the Angels have bowed down in the mere presence of mankind.
My existence should not need to demand an apology - even diamonds are only carbon and I am so much more than them.
There are as many atoms in a single molecule of my DNA as there are stars in the night sky,
and I can conquer cities with these constellations illuminating from within me.
I am an entire universe darling,
and I am not sorry for it.
“Go to a coffee shop. Sit by the bar with the glass windows and look out. Look at all the people running to catch a train. All the girls with one too many shopping bags. All the couples too in love to care. Then you’ll see it - a bit of yourself in everyone. And somehow, sitting alone in a coffee shop had never felt so good.”—note to self (via c0ntemplations)
“I don’t give a shit what the world thinks. I was born a bitch, I was born a painter, I was born fucked. But I was happy in my way. You did not understand what I am. I am love. I am pleasure, I am essence, I am an idiot, I am an alcoholic, I am tenacious. I am; simply I am…You are a shit.”—Frida Kahlo, from an unsent letter to Diego Rivera (via godddamnit)