Whenthetreesspeaklatin - The Trees Speak Latin

Look at this. This is what I need to show to every adult in my life every time they ask why.

“you do not need to explain your decisions to anybody if you don’t feel comfortable doing so”

— Unknown

If hurting me does not hurt you, you don’t love me. You’re using me.

k.b // by jerry flowers jr

If you read the fic, leave the kudos. Leave a comment too, if possible. Just do it. It takes a few seconds of your time and it means the world to the writer.

Sincerely, me who just got told that my writing feels like watching a blockbuster movie. I don't care if they were sincere or not, I'll be thinking about that comment for the rest of my life and every time I feel bad about my art, I'll remember that someone once liked it.

– Tony Hoagland, from "Dickhead", Donkey Gospel

i'm jealous of the girls with big sisters. i'm not the oldest or anything, i actually have three older sisters. i say older because they were never "big sisters" to me. my family was not made for people who crave individuality; you either fell out or fell in line and i was never quite good at keep the colors in the lines. i see all these people posting about what a big sister is like, how they save you from your shared house of horrors, how you're just like the best version of them and they love you for it.

Mine?

they resent me for shaping out to be just like them but what the fuck was i supposed to do? i looked up to them, at least two of them, and i just wanted them to love me.

I always said i felt like the older sister. whether it's because i'm sending money, holding them while they cry, or cleaning them up from a fucking breakdown; it was me. it was me holding their hands, it was me telling them that everything will be okay while i, a petrified child, trembled in fear and prayed my mantra into existence.

they all left me. first the house, then the state, and then just my life in general. turns out, when you show traits of who they used to be (who they want to be), they can't stand to look at you anymore.

Of each of the things that we have each written,

You were the best one of mine

My love, our words will continue through the darkness,

In order to spark the next flame

“The writer's job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are up there, throw rocks at them.” — Vladimir Nabokov