“Like most sensitive souls, you already know you’re sensitive.
You soak up others’ moods and desires like a sponge. You absorb sensation the way a paintbrush grasps each color it touches on a palette. The ethereal beauty of a dandelion, the shift of a season, the climax of a song, or a certain stirring scent can evoke such wonder it’ll behave as your very breath itself- moving through cells as fuel does to fire and wind does to waves.”—Victoria Erickson (via seulray)
how can u say u are not pretty when u are a cluster of stardust, a walking explosion of nebulas like there are constellations that knot your arteries together, you’re beyond pretty, more like a spectacular sight for all of us
The day before my 7th birthday party my mom took me to the doctor because she noticed I had a rash all over my body. We were told it was Scarlet Fever, which was just strep throat with a rash. My mother waited until the doctor left the room and yelled at me. She insisted I made her look like an unsuitable parent because she wasn’t aware her own child had a sore throat until she noticed the rash creeping up all over my body. I remember her asking me over and over again why I didn’t just tell her my throat hurt, and I kept saying that I didn’t know that it did. She told me that she hated that I always had to be difficult and that any other child would have just spoken up. When the doctor reappeared in the room and overheard my mother, he came to my defense telling her some children simply have a higher tolerance for pain. He gave me two suckers with “Get Well Soon” decorative wrappers, they were red like my rash, and I held them tightly in my hands on the way home hoping that they would cure me somehow. And weeks later even when the rash slowly disappeared I was scared that people could still see it even though I couldn’t, and that I’d be irrevocably incorrect somehow for the rest of my life.
Every now and then I think about that as people cycle in and out of my life while I try desperately to hold on to them. It is always the same, they love me and then they disappear because to share my company requires an amount of patience impossible for the human body to contain. My affection is hardly outwardly shown and my quiet nature is often times misinterpreted as narcissism. My words are formed precisely and delivered in a matter of fact manner, which often times leaves the party on the receiving end unsure if I am sincere or self-centered. My love translates to bitterness, my face looks sad even when it’s happy and my hands are always so cold. Sometimes when I’m downtown walking through a large crowd I want to let my fingers graze the hands of those around me to feel if mine are still just as theirs. But every time they get close enough I pull my hand away because I am scared I will find out that I am indeed irrevocably incorrect somehow.