Salma Deera

for my unrequited crush (disguise)

she wakes at dawn when the sky is painted gold, and pink, to dress in drowsiness.

she doesn’t remember when it started, when her cheeks became so pink, when her heart grew unsteady whenever she tried to think, but now instead of colouring them flush, she drains the colours from that blush to keep and hide away lest someone see it and say her thoughts, spill them aloud— no. that couldn’t be allowed.

so now she wakes two hours earlier, when the sky is painted blue, to carve her cheeks and chap her lips and give off less than she might give so no one would see it and then ask how her glow had grown so fast why her heart beat unsteady over something that she wasn’t yet ready to know.

but instead of stifling it, as she wished, the glow grew and she began to know the hurt that followed, the cramps and aches and loving pains that carved out her heart and gleaned her happiness a constant rain.

until when she tried to cover it someone noticed the flush that couldn’t be missed, under her disguise, the hope that grew in her eyes, the stabs of knives in her heart, every  single  time.

she stifled that pain. till it went away, but to this day something faint stays the pink glow that was stolen from the sun the love in which she is the only one.

“To hell with them. Nothing hurts if you don’t let it.”

— Ernest Hemingway

Don’t ask yourself what the world needs, ask yourself what makes you come alive. And then go and do that. Because what the world needs is people who are alive.

Howard Thurman

Marian Engel, from Notebooks: "Ah, Mon Cahier, čoute"

Text ID: Art is always becoming.

What we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All that we love deeply becomes a part of us.

Helen Keller

“Although it’s difficult today to see beyond the sorrow, may looking back in memory help comfort you tomorrow.”

— Unknown

“I am still learning.”

— Michelangelo (via thoughtkick)

“Sometimes you have to do what’s best for you, not what’s best for somebody else.”

— Unknown (via stay-close)

i’m new to this whole romance thing.  but for you, i want to give it a try!

“I may be feeding an impure hunger.”

— Virginia Woolf, from a letter to Violet Dickinson written c. September 1907 (via violentwavesofemotion)