nevver:

The Dead and the Dying

(via the-power-is-yours)

People post many pictures of their bloody cuts here. I have no intention of invalidating anyone’s feelings or condemning people who do cut; I just feel that it’s very counterproductive. People who have an addiction to cutting or trying to recover from the addiction (that includes me) may find them triggering. People who have problems releasing their emotions, identifying their emotions or suffer from apathy may be influenced to think that cutting is an option. Cutting is very addictive and dangerous. More and more people are harming themselves; not because “society is really fucked up”, but because people who struggle with anxiety and depression are lead to believe that cutting gives them temporary relief. Everyone goes through a period of depression and it is healthy, because it can be a learning process. But when a person is influenced to believe that there’s no way out of depression, they will get major depressive disorder. Posting pictures of your bloody cuts may be a way of asking for help or bringing wareness, but there are other actions that can be done without having a negative effect on another person.

You spoke like raindrops

hitting a windowpane.

The salty scent forces

me to reminisce the young

days of dancing in the rain.

I miss the feeling of bliss when

our fingers entwine like vines

molding together.

Pain is hidden inside each

tally-mark on your sun-kissed skin.

Each with a storyline skewed

by the sadness within.

high school mathematics.

sinandserotonin:

in calculus
I learned that
one infinity
can be larger
than another

and that never
made much sense
to me back then—

forever is forever
eternity is eternity
and infinity is infinity

but the universe expands
and the heart grows
to accommodate
feelings like this.

I loved you yesterday
and even more so today
so I guess one infinity
being larger than another
makes sense in the end.

(via sinandserotonin)

Today I learned that my dad 

had depression- or still does.

When he was my age,

he couldn’t afford sleeves

to hide his scars, so he

hid them pass his ribs

and underneath his 

pulsing heart.

 This unnamed black force 

came lashing and beating

making his heart writhe,

tugging hard on his heartstrings.

 A poor boy who lives by 

eating leftovers and

counting pennies can’t

afford to let his heavy heart

drag his legs down, because

magic pills and one hour sessions

are for the rich men who could

afford to be depressed.

I think about death everyday. How it would be like or how I would do it.

But I never do it, or be close to doing it. I never pass that line, because I care about people who care about me. The relationships that I have made with people would be worthless, and the hard work people have done for me would amount to nothing.

I know that I am not worthless to people, but I feel it in my gut. I don’t understand why, but I can’t shake of the irrational thoughts. What I know is that if I kill myself, I would be spreading my pain to everyone I know. I cant be that selfish.