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Hi tumblr, this is John. He is an incredible person, and it is still so hard for me to grasp the fact that he is my boyfriend. But he is and he is, and there is not a day that goes by that I am not thanking God for bringing someone that meant so much to me over three years ago back into my life in the way that He has. So, there you go. Meet John. :)
we were poetry written with pens that scribbled out each drop of ink until there was nothing left to write with, but the tide came in and knocked at our metaphors and rhythm, pulling the pages of our little stories and moments further and further from shore, tearing apart our binds and page numbers with the force of a love that has been submerged in stinging salt and swells of water that crawl into the very lungs that admire them. and all our lines have been smudged, and the ink has run down each paragraph, and the paper holding each word floats just beneath the surface - close enough to reach for, but becoming more and more breakable with every particle of water that sinks itself into its stitches, urging its corners to fold and its edges to tear.
I was self consumed. My mind thought about nothing but the person staring back at me in the mirror. My biggest concern was not my family, or my boyfriend, or my schoolwork, not even the upcoming season or any excitement towards my future, but rather the biggest weight upon my shoulders was stitched with concern over myself. I criticised my height, my face, my arms, my stomach, my back, my legs, my thighs, my smile, my eyes, and my weight. I told and reminded beautiful girls of their self worth and how it breaks the heart of Christ when His daughters pick apart the very parts of themselves that were molded delicately by His hands, yet I didn’t believe my own words when it came to myself. My largest concern was eating less, excercising more, and striving for a type of beauty that man would admire. As I decreased my daily intake, my mood changed. I didn’t care about my neighbour or the hurts of those closest to me, but rather was only focused on how I was feeling. I wore baggy sweaters and walked around with a smug look on my face, because nobody knew of the bones hidden beneath the fabric. No one knew that I could run my fingers up and down each rib, or could feel the ridges of my spine through my shirt. My insides begged for nourishment, my tired heart knocked quicker than usual, and even my bones groaned for rest, but I saw these things as proof that I was winning. My dearest relationships were held by thinning and delicate thread. I got into silly arguments over things that didn’t matter, and I judged people who only spoke to help. My boyfriend constantly and gently reminded me of the truth, of my worth and of the person that I really am and was created to be, but I’d choose to tuck his voice into my pocket and promised myself to believe him later. I never did though, because I was consumed with hate towards myself and content in thinking that I was right.
I love words. I love writing into the late hours of the night until my fingers shake, and during this time I wrote and wrote, but my words were filled with hate. Hate towards myself, and over the very breath in my lungs and the voice in my head. I wrote of my past over and over again, and about the things I have done to hurt myself and the moments where I tore the hearts of others in half, and I convinced myself that I deserved to break - that my past defined me and that I was not worthy of joy or health, or life. With tired eyes and frail fingers, I’d hide my words in the space behind my dresser and would read them every night, adding to the places where I felt that I was too easy on myself. I knew God was there, but I didn’t want him to be. I was so convinced that my past and my bad decisions were enough for Him to look the other way. I could feel Him on those nights where I’d check for my hipbones or check to see if the measurements were really correct, but I’d push Him away and tell him that I deserved to feel this way. That feeling empty was worth it, because nothing felt as lovely as bones and skin.
There is so much more to say, but perhaps those things are better kept where I left them. They don’t matter because I’m not writing this to lay out what my body has been fighting these past few months. I’m not writing these words for pity or for a reason to get noticed. I write them because I need you to know that Jesus saved me, and I want Him to gain all the glory for taking me out of that place, and showing me truth again. Jesus picked me up and whispered love stories into my ears. He took the eyes that criticize and replaced them with His. He took my regret and shame over my past and forgave each moment where I fell short. He picked up each piece of me that was convinced that I was unworthy of all things beautiful, and told me that He takes great delight in me even though I am made up broken pieces. He reminded me that I was created intricately with a specific purpose in mind. A purpose that was carefully laid out for me to strive after. Though I was afraid of Him and what He might say, He came with more love than I can describe with words. He wrapped me in all that He is and peeled away the layers that this world has painted onto me. Layers constructed with words of self hate and selfish strivings for physical beauty and skin and bones written on every inch, He peeled them away and I watched as they shattered at my feet. He held me, though I tried to pull His arms from me, and He breathed Truth into me again and I felt it.
I am worth so much more than what this world and its king has convinced me to believe. Because of how focused I was on myself, I missed out on helping a lot of beautiful people. People who needed a friend and needed someone to listen. I was selfish and self absorbed, and I forgot about what I am here to do. I forgot about the lost souls and the people who are trying to fill themselves up with temporary things only to find that those things are ever enough. And so they continue on with their searches to fill the parts of themselves that they know are empty, and it always ends the same way. I too was empty, and instead of filling myself with truth and love and with the hope that comes from Christ, I filled myself with goals to gain the admiration of man, and to prove to myself that I was strong enough to be in control of something - even when my health was at risk, and even when it was affecting the people that love me the most. Even when it was breaking the very heart of the one who created me. I lost my purpose and I lost my direction. I had it all wrong because my goals of beauty were the most important factors of my life. What was I doing? My life is worth so much more than such trivial things! This world got to my head, and I lost focus on what I am really here for. My life was meant to consist of more than what I have been living for. I have purpose, and it is stunning and gives me more hope than anything else. And I am beautiful because of who I am in Christ. My outward appearance will pass away and crack, but who I am - my character, my soul - is going to last for all eternity, and it is the inward parts of me that I want to be beautiful. I want a heart that God sees as humble and kind, and honouring to Him. I want my life to reflect Him, to glorify Him. Concerning myself with the way I look has only made me incredibly selfish and self serving. This life is not about me - it is about Him, and my greatest desire is that He would increase, and that I would decrease.
this is so relevant to my life. i too said goodbye to someone that is in love with me - someone whom i save the most smiles for. despite the fact that we were good together, i realized that i was not in love with him and that my heart belonged to someone else all along. i think his heart is still hurting, and that hurts me, but i can’t keep pretending that i belong to him. thank you for submitting.
Everything about us has been the exception. You know everything I’ve done to be near to you even when we couldn’t be together. Even when it was bad timing I stayed around, made myself half depressed for a little while there, and then you helped me get out of it. I’ve had one relationship since we first met, and that lasted a month, and I ended it because it was nothing in comparison to how i felt about you. That’s when I knew for sure that I hadn’t gotten over you. It was christmas eve and I was on my computer at my parents house, and I stayed up super late talking to you, and we reminded each other of the last new years and how good that was. And I was trying so hard not to think of those things but it came up and we did talk about them. And I knew that that relationship had to end. So it did. And I felt like a big jerk because I broke up with her even though I had no reason to believe I’d ever get a chance to be with you again. I’ve not even considered other girls, and since that first kiss under the tree, I’ve considered myself taken. No one else was an option because I’ve never needed another choice. You’ve always been first choice for me. People have thought me to be crazy to keep trying and for being so persistent, but it’s not that hard to be the only one who thinks you’re meant to be with someone. I don’t really believe in all that fate stuff, but rather that some wishes made at 11:11 you have to make happen yourself. And I’ve worked for this, and you know that. Sorry to be lame but it’s true that I built a home for you. Inside me there is a place for you that is fixed into my very foundation. To change that would require demolition. So forgive me if I just want to see if this is a storm we can wait out.”
-from a boy who wants me to be his girl
(Source: feliciaa-nicole)
“I couldn’t stay after you said you could never be with me - I didn’t want to start crying in public. Did you see my eyes burning before you left for class? I hope you meant what you said and that this is what you want, because I don’t think I can bounce back from this one. Are you sure this is what you want? You know what I don’t get? I’ve lost you three times and I still want you back, but you were hurt and now you don’t trust anyone. It’s always a risk. If you like me so much then it should be worth it. Don’t you tihnk it was a risk for me to continuously put myself back out there? I was always deathly afraid that you’d change your mind again and then I’d be even more messed up. I’ve waited this long, I’ll continue waiting. What’s a few more months or a year if it means a lifetime? You’re just scared because you know that if we started dating, we would be together forever. I know it just like you do. Do you know how rare what we have is? If you find it, you don’t give it up for time or because you’re afraid. That’s why I’m still here. I’m not goign to put my money in a lottery for some magical girl you say will come along and be so amazing. I’d rather work every day and save up for you. What’s more like a storybook? The work we have already put in, or waiting for some mythical person to appear? I’ve always compared everyone to you. It never mattered how long it had been, there wasn’t one girl that I wanted more than you. Even when I held other hands and kissed other lips, they were never your fingers in between mine and it was never your breath on my mouth. I just don’t think I want to be without you, even if we never date or get married or whatever. I’d just like you to be close forever. In my mind it’s like this: I like you, you like me, you’re not going to be ready for quite a while, so we just wait. It’s simple and good and alright.”
-a letter from a boy that wants to call me his girlfriend
(Source: feliciaa-nicole)
(via tierneylee)
She idled the engine for a moment in front of her parent’s house before turning the key, feeling the car shudder to a stop beneath her. It was another few moments before she was able to gather the courage to unbuckle her seatbelt, open the door, and clamber from the vehicle.
Her boots— brand-new, high-heeled, ankle-height, black suede— crunched on the snow. It hadn’t snowed in a couple days, but the weather had stayed dismally cold and the snow just kept getting packed tighter and tighter.
Pulling her maroon scarf up to cover her nose, tucking the knitted, frayed ends into her coat to keep them from flying away with the whistling wind, she started up the front walk. It’d been years since she’d been to this particular house, traced these footsteps. There were fresh prints on the walk and cars in the driveway as well as littered along the street; a part of her was relieved to see that everyone else had already arrived safely.
She wasn’t quite sure why she’d received an invitation to Thanksgiving this year, after so many winters of silence. Her parents weren’t the sentimental type; that was, after all, where she’d gotten her own personal coldness from. The desire to, rather than deal with the problem, shut it out, forget it, move on.
But she’d gone out to check the mail one day and there it was, a small, cream-colored envelope with her name and address on it, return address: home. It had sat for a couple days on the table in the dining room, propped against an empty vase whose last flowers were long since forgotten.
The door was probably unlocked, but she rang the doorbell anyway. The chime was so familiar, yet sounded distant: she was definitely used to hearing it from inside.
She heard footsteps and laughter, sock-clad feet sliding on the hardwood in the entryway as a young person ran to open the door. The door swung open and revealed her six-year-old niece, Sarabelle, who grinned up at her and promptly ran off, yelling, “MOM AUNT RY-RY IS HERE!” leaving Riley to step inside and shake the snow off her coat by herself.
She busied herself with looking around the foyer. It looked much the same as she remembered. Cleaner, mostly. The walls were a new shade of pale yellow; a nice, serene yellow, not the piss-brightness of the room she used to share with her sister. There were still tracks in the carpet from the vacuum, and there was a pile of unfamiliar snowboots in the corner by the door. Skittering down the hallway now, always a few paces behind Sara, was the family dog. She obliged him with a few scratches under his threadbare chin and, content, the old dog heaved a sigh and collapsed at her feet.
She was taking in the pictures that now adorned the stairwell and didn’t notice the new person’s arrival until he spoke. “They’re all trying to get the turkey out of the oven in one piece, so they sent me to greet you.” She turned to take in the stranger and realized he wasn’t a stranger at all. Tall, dark, and handsome: he’d always been one to dress well and tonight was no exception. Clad in slacks and a fleece jacket, both black, he exuded a sophistication that wasn’t entirely an act. The facial hair looked a bit out of place on a man she’d always known to be clean-shaven, but it worked well enough… remembered fingers alighting on his cheekbones…
Blinking slowly, after an instant to clear her mind, she took the hand that was offered and followed him into the house, to warmth, to food, to friends and family, to memories shared and memories to be made, to wounds that were in desperate need of mending.
submit the URL of your favourite piece of writing and i’ll reblog it here. sometimes the words written from the fingers of strangers can reach the parts of our bones that we don’t have the strength to touch on our own.
