how do you say ‘please talk to me more i crave your company’ to someone without sounding like a creep
>teenage actress’s private nudes get leaked
>teenage actress is reviled as a slut and a whore and a bad role model
>james franco asks a seventeen-year-old girl if he can meet her in a private hotel room
>james franco gets to go on saturday night live and joke about what a silly doofus he is for soliciting sex from a girl literally half his age
DO NOT DARE OVERLOOK THIS POST
I am not beautiful. You could never see the sunset or the sunrise in my eyes. They look like a starless sky in a lonely night in December. They are dull and lifeless just like the soul that you could see through them. My hair looks like waves of tragedy and my lips are chapped like a rocky road. My skin is covered with scars that others have inflicted in me and the ones I gave myself. It is not smooth just like the other girls on the magazine. Others could not even take a look at it.
You are beautiful. I see not only the beaming moon radiating in your eyes, but also strings of constellations on a cool evening in February. I see a lost soul in your eyes, not a dull and lifeless one. My dear, you will find your way back home. Your hair is soft tresses of resilience and your lips are dandelions someone wishes for. Your skin is more precious than the airbrushed and distorted skin on those magazines. I look at yours and see it marred with scars, but you fail to see their beauty for they speak of your struggles and how you prevailed each time. You also fail to see seeds waiting to bloom into flowers.
I am not beautiful. My hands are not delicate. They are ragged and shaky. They are made for destruction. Everything I touch, I leave in ruins. Everything I try to hold on to slips away from my fingers easily. My feet are fiery. They burn everything that they step on. This is the reason why I don’t visit gardens anymore. I burned down into ashes the last one I wandered on.
You are beautiful. Your hands aren’t meant to be delicate. They’re meant to get scarred and bruised, but that doesn’t make them any less beautiful. My dear, ruins are not always ugly. Why do you think people visit places like the Colosseum and the Stonehenge? I look at your hands and I see universes waiting for their planets, so it’s okay if the earths you once held left you. Maybe a Mars is meant for them. Visit dark forests and unpaved roads because the soils of gardens are too delicate for the warmth of your feet.
I am not beautiful. Even my words speak of melancholy and desperation. I write them during the hours after midnight whenever my bones break and my mind shuts down from sanity. Everyone who has read them agreed on one thing: they are daggers that aimed straight to their hearts. There is nothing glamorous with what I am. There is no beauty in disaster.
You are beautiful. Your words come from your heart and your mind, and that in itself is more beautiful. My dear, while there is no beauty in disaster, there is beauty in recovery. In those hours past midnight, your bones are also regenerating and your mind is burning with life. You see knives in your words, but I see the lullabies resting in between each space and letter - lullabies that touch and whisper a breath of life to parts of my heart I thought long ago had died.
I am not beautiful. I am a mountain of regrets that is higher than Mt. Everest. I am lies curled up in a giant ball. I am every definition of failure. Even my voice is raging like a thunderclap, and my exhaustion flows endlessly and drowns everyone around me. My skin is etched with words that define who I am and the last time I checked, the word beautiful is not one of them.
You are beautiful. You are a trench of hopes and promises that runs deeper than Marianas. Lies and failures might be written on your body, but I see the word beautiful on every inch of your skin that your eyes seem to ignore or look past at. Your voice reminds me of raindrops hitting my rooftop. It calms me and brings me comfort on lonely nights. My dear, people drown in your words because they are an abyss of warmth. People long to surrender to the sun rays emanating from your hushed words.
I am not beautiful. I am not worth anyone’s attentions nor affections. No one has ever looked at me like I am a piece of miracle. No one has ever held me like I am fragile. My pieces are scattered on the floor and I am sure that no one would ever dare to pick them up and make them whole again.
You are beautiful. You are not a piece of miracle because you are more than a slice of wonder. You are a whole phenomenon of grace, beauty, and blessing. Someone will come and treat you delicately. My dear, if no one has ever held you and made you whole again, it is because your pieces do not match theirs. I am broken into pieces too, and maybe mine will match yours like an old puzzle. If they don’t, then let me be the one who will pick up your pieces and treasure them in my hands until the right person comes along to help you stitch them together.