It's not about forcing happiness.

Mental illness is not like make up. You cannot apply it in the morning then remove at home where there is no one around. It will not make people love you more or lure that boy into your arms.You cannot put on a coat of depression, dust on anxiety, draw on your self injuries and spray your bulimia. It is not something so people think you are beautiful, Mental illness is not beautiful.

Mental illness is a disease to the brain. It makes you sick, the voices that you hear are no one else’s but your own. You get tired of things that you once loved, you get tired of people you once loved. Sometimes, you get so scared to go outside that you’d rather die inside your room. You hate yourself and hate yourself, you have no other way to express it but to draw blood. You remember that there are 49 calories in an apple but forget how to smile.

It is not like make up. You are not playing ‘Mommy’ or ‘Grown Ups’ It will not make you any more or less beautiful. It is not poetic or make you seem mysteriously captivating to others.So please stop pretending and romanticizing mental illness.

– (via porcelainandpaperflowers)

the-psycho-cutie:

I want you in every way possible. I want you when you’re sick, I want you when you’re sad, and I want you when you’re happy. I want you in the morning and at night. I want you when I make breakfast. I want your hands in mine. I want you in my arms and next to me in bed. I want your lips against mine. I want to watch movies with you and build forts. I want to lay on the hood of the car under the stars. I want to spend holidays with you. I want you, and only you. 

“I want you to leave marks on me.
Marks from loving me too hard,
from kissing me too hard,
and holding me too hard.
I want you to leave your handprint.
I want your loving words to hit me hard.
I want to feel your love on my skin.”

– Only kind of marks (via fukcx)

“How to love your depressed lover.
Last night I thought I kissed the loneliness from out your belly button. I thought I did, but later you sat up, all bones and restless hands, and told me there is a knot in your body that I cannot undo. I never know what to say to these things. “It’s okay.” “Come back to bed.” “Please don’t go away again.” Sometimes you are gone for days at a time and it is all I can do not to call the police, file a missing person’s report, even though you are right there, still sleeping next to me in bed. But your eyes are like an empty house in winter: lights left on to scare away intruders. Except in this case I am the intruder and you are already locked up so tight that no one could possibly jimmy their way in. Last night I thought I gave you a reason not to be so sad when I held your body like a high note and we both trembled from the effort.
Some people, though, are sad against all reason, all sensibility, all love. I know better now. I know what to say to the things you admit to me in the dark, all bones and restless hands. “It’s okay.” “You can stay in bed.” “Please come back to me again.”

(via c0rktree)

This is so sad and incredibly relavant.

(via tyedyetaylor)

I love this

(via lildeadprincess)

sigh xx

(via raging-psychotics)