he halted in the wind,
and what was that far in the maples, pale, but not a ghost?
he stood there bringing March against his thought, and yet too ready to believe the most.

"Oh, that's the Paradise-in-bloom," I said; And truly it was fair enough for flowers had we but in us to assume in march Such white luxuriance of May for ours.

We stood a moment so in a strange world, Myself as one his own pretense deceives; And then I said the truth (and we moved on). A young beech clinging to its last year's leaves.
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like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins
Screaming in the dark

Because tumblr is apparently the only way we communicate now.

I’m breaking up with you. All of you.

Because I have had way too many people walk in and out of my life, and when I needed you the most, you were not there. 

So I’m done. I can’t be friends with people who only remember I exist when the holidays or a birthday or a party comes around, and suddenly I exist to raise attendance numbers. I can’t be friends with people who don’t bother to answer a text or to call. I can’t be friends with someone who is only there when it is convenient for them and not when I need you, someone I’m lucky to talk to once every two months. And what hurts the most is that you knew, and you didn’t even try. You could have called. You should have called. I needed you, any of you, and you should have called.

I’ve learned my lesson. And I have had more than enough of being treated like furniture and largely ignored by my friends. It’s been grand, but it’s time for you to lose my phone number. 

"If you are silent about your pain, they’ll kill you and say you enjoyed it."
Zora Neale Hurston (via left-nut)
"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."
Maya Angelou (via pale-afternoon)

because she had no idea how else to say ‘help me’. 

If anyone is awake at this hour, and has my number, and wants to get tea and drive around in the rain and just talk, please text me. 

text me like, five minutes ago, because I’d like to do something that isn’t sitting in my room and crying all night. 

You could have called.

Crying because this is why I don’t drive.

"She was beautiful, but she was beautiful in the way a forest fire was beautiful."
Neil Gaiman  (via cornflowers)