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"I’m not graceful.
I’m not a delicate kiss, nor a magnificent sunset. My wrists aren’t elegant; my legs don’t reach the stars. I am a Monday morning, bleary eyed and coffee energised. I am bushy eyebrows, and split ends. I am the bruise from walking into the side of the door. I am the broken bottle from Friday night, lying on the floor empty, stripped of its label, on a Saturday morning. I’m the broken window in April, beckoning to the oncoming winter winds. I’m the book that lays dogged eared and unfinished, the coffee stain on the table, the unmade bed. I apologise for awkward silences and scamper from sympathy. I crack from others pain, and hide my own in my shoes, curled between my toes. I laugh too raucously, and cry too softly. I never get the punch line quick enough, and trip up stairs.
I’m not graceful.
But –"
- c.s
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w-hiteroseparade:

What do you do when his hate for himself is so deep-seated?

So fathomless, and harrowing

A bottomless pit, inflamed by bitter thoughts:

I’m fat

I’m ugly

No one likes me

I have no friends

There’s always someone better.

What do you do when they cannot tell you what makes them happy?

And the only way you see them smile

Is when you kiss their lips

Hear them groan in pleasure

When you suck their dick

Feel them relax

Under your touch

What do you do when she texts you that night, crying for help?

Crying to help him.

What do you do when you call up his mum

A women you haven’t spoken to in years

And tell her

Watch over your son tonight

Don’t let him be alone

What do you 

When she asks

Why?

What do you say

When they all ask

Why?

What do you do when all you want

Is to walk away

And the Guilt begins to eat you

From the inside

Out.