Forwarded from Aroosha.
انقد چیزای زیاد و عجیبی به خودم وصل میکنم مامانم برگشته میگه بیا زیپ هم لکن تو گوشت 😭
Forwarded from deer. (Kiana .)
“Date idea: We go to the bookstore, you buy me the books I like, and I’ll give you a kiss.”
❤🔥1
I love it when a random girl compliments me. Like you made my whole day Queen.
💊2
I wish I could open my mouth and let everything
spill out at once, every awful detail, every quiet
moment that rewired me, every thing that hurt so
badly it changed the way I look at people and and
myself, because maybe then it would make sense
why I am the way I am, why I'm careful and loud at
the same time, why I want closeness but don't know
how to get it. I imagine that if people really knew, if
they could see the full weight of every moment in
my life instead of the edited version, they would
soften, they would stay, they would choose me not
out of obligation but because they finally understood
that I'm distant or strange or too much for no reason.
All I want is to be cared for in that simple human
way where someone sees the cracks and doesn’t
flinch, where friendship feels earned through
honesty instead of small talk and pretending. I know
this because I know myself, because if someone
came to me and laid out their whole life like a
confession, all the trauma and shame and survival, I
wouldn't run, I would listen, I would feel closer to
them instantly, like trust could grow from truth
instead of time. But I don't get to do that, because
the world doesn't work that way, because people
don't want the heavy parts up front, because
vulnerability is treated like something you have to
deserve rather than something that deserves care. So
I carry it all quietly and hope someone notices the
weight without me naming it, hope someone stays
without needing proof, and the loneliness of that
hope is its own kind of hurt, this feeling that I am
ready to love and understand in ways no one is
asking for, that I am built to meet people where they
are, but no one is built to meet me where I am.
spill out at once, every awful detail, every quiet
moment that rewired me, every thing that hurt so
badly it changed the way I look at people and and
myself, because maybe then it would make sense
why I am the way I am, why I'm careful and loud at
the same time, why I want closeness but don't know
how to get it. I imagine that if people really knew, if
they could see the full weight of every moment in
my life instead of the edited version, they would
soften, they would stay, they would choose me not
out of obligation but because they finally understood
that I'm distant or strange or too much for no reason.
All I want is to be cared for in that simple human
way where someone sees the cracks and doesn’t
flinch, where friendship feels earned through
honesty instead of small talk and pretending. I know
this because I know myself, because if someone
came to me and laid out their whole life like a
confession, all the trauma and shame and survival, I
wouldn't run, I would listen, I would feel closer to
them instantly, like trust could grow from truth
instead of time. But I don't get to do that, because
the world doesn't work that way, because people
don't want the heavy parts up front, because
vulnerability is treated like something you have to
deserve rather than something that deserves care. So
I carry it all quietly and hope someone notices the
weight without me naming it, hope someone stays
without needing proof, and the loneliness of that
hope is its own kind of hurt, this feeling that I am
ready to love and understand in ways no one is
asking for, that I am built to meet people where they
are, but no one is built to meet me where I am.