hoffnung is scheisse.
The less you open your heart to others, the more your heart suffers.
She loved him more than any one knew, but she refused to listen to her heart as it echoed his name. Instead, she listened to her head each time it said “You’ll never end up together, he only sees you as a friend”. Her mind always won over her heart because she was scared; of change, of rejection, of feeling too much. Because she loved him even more than she knew, but she was too afraid to find out if maybe he loved her too.
I wish I wore red lipstick more and broke boys heart daily but sadly boys break my heart and I look bad in red lipstick.
oh god if this is what heart break feels like please take me out I’m struggling to dream happy dreams my mind awaits my nightmares and dreads my fantasies because every time i fucking wake up my nightmare replays over and over and my chest aches oh god if this is what heart break feels like please take me out
I wish I wore red lipstick more and broke boys heart daily but sadly boys break my heart and I look bad in red lipstick.
They say it won’t matter in a year, but what happens if it does? What happens if, a year later, it still breaks my heart? What then?
I wish I wore red lipstick more and broke boys heart daily but sadly boys break my heart and I look bad in red lipstick.
“We’d be good together don’t you think?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll break your heart.”
“Maybe I’ll break yours.“
"Nobody breaks my heart."
“We’d be good together don’t you think?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ll break your heart.”
“Maybe I’ll break yours.“
"Nobody breaks my heart."
oh neinnnn nn
When he came back, five months and thirteen days after he’d said goodbye, she did not weep when he stood in the doorframe. She did not thank him for showing up. She did not open her arms, did not open her heart. Her arms were crossed in front of her chest, her limbs and her ribcage protecting her heart from exploding out of her body and spilling all her secrets. “No,” she breathed, “that’s not how it works.”
“You said you’d wait for me,” he reminded her sternly, edging closer, “you promised.”
“And you think you can come back after months of not calling, of not caring? You think my promises mean anything if you can’t keep your own?” His face went blank, like the sky robbed of the stars, and she realised he didn’t know. He had no clue. His promises were like scabbed wounds, they faded with time and healed over, new skin growing to cover the original cut, until you forgot you had bled in the first place. But there was one promise that went deeper, one promise that had not faded and one she had not forgotten. A cut that would never heal. “You promised-,” she whispered, her voice dangerously low in her throat, “you promised you’d always love me. You said we were forever. Then you left. I didn’t break my promise. I waited. But eventually I realised two things: I was waiting in vain and more importantly: I didn’t want you to come back.” She was smiling now, a smile that spoke of pain and revenge and shattered hearts. “And I want to promise you one thing: if you ever fall down, you’ll be sorry I won’t be there to pick up the pieces.”
