To keep trusting the sun…

People and relationships and the sun, the moon, and the earth, and the way we are planets and the people we let into our lives become our suns, and the way we trust them.

“just like a sunset i know i could never change you, but just like a sunset even if i had the chance i wouldn’t. beauty to the core. you are fire and you are heat and you are dangerous.you have the power to destroy me and my entire world. but just like the sun, your heat warms it does not burn, and your light colours my world, it does not blind me.”

you are fire, and you are heat, and fuck, you are dangerous. your heat is burning me, and your light is blinding me, and we both know that you know, so why are you not giving me sun screen, or planting me a tree so that i have some shade. you’re supposed to love me, you’re not supposed to hurt me, and if you know that you are you’re supposed to have the decency to give me some kind of protection.

so much for love. its such a misused word. such a misunderstood word.

you’re burning me and blinding me and i am trying to protect myself but in my own stupidity i’ve set up camp in a desert, believing i could trust, now i’ve got no shade and i’m running out of water but i can’t go anywhere because i just love the sun so damn much.

silly me.

and still, i will never change the way i love, or the way i trust. i cannot be bitter. at least now i’ve got that sunkissed tan.

cracked all over, but still beautiful

I find beauty in broken people.                                                                                                                                       There is something about how you can almost see each individual piece of who they’ve been, and how these pieces have been put together to create who they are, each piece representing a different part of their lives.                                                                                                                                                                                   Behind every tear, scar, and fake smile, there are fragments of who they are, who they’ve been, and of their shear beauty.

A rose is only as pretty as its full bloom, after that it’s thrown out.                                                                               But when a rose is dying, slowly discolouring, each petal breaking off and falling to the floor, turning into dust, is that not beauty?

Far too often we define beauty as perfection, when in reality the most beautiful moments happen by chance, and the most beautiful smile is hiding a lifetime of pain packed into twenty years of crashed existence.                                                                                                                                                                              That is beauty.                                                                                                                                                                        Crashing. Getting up and fighting. Scars.                                                                                                                     Scars are beautiful, they tell a story, and stories are beautiful.                                                                               They open up your eyes to a world so different from your own that there is nothing left to do but admire.           It’s the unknown.                                                                                                                                                               And tell me now, what could be more beautiful than the experience of that which you do not know?              Do not let your broken pieces ruin you, you were created in beauty, and will remain beautiful long after your body ceases to walk this earth.

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