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Arabella is an unusual girl. She likes to have her nails solely in black velvet. Her father sent her to boarding school the moment she turned nine. There she unearth that solitude will never be a problem for her, and so as independence is her best trait. She’s fond of seeing boys as they deteriorate over solid ground, crying as they wail over the love of a girl they never had. They reward a laugh from her. Pity, she’ll always say. You’ll find books wherever she is. There would be one in her bag, near the basket of apples, by the couch, by the covers, by the car, stacked inside her drawers. The tittles of the books are all the ones the library in the small town she grew up had banned. Then there’s her vitality, drowning in the dead sea. She rouses all kinds of fits, you know; frustrated over not opening a chestnut perfectly and kissing parts of you she hasn’t been able to kiss yet, both counted. She’s like smoke, that girl, Arabella. She’s going to make you want to cry. Writing is her religion. Paper and pen are her gods. Ironic how they simply make her closer to death.. Then so are you, for you’re her temple. You know what she collects? Her nail clippings, wilt roses and thoughts of you. Arabella is abreast to her flaws. Even if you kneel in front of her, pleading and crying for her to tell you the things she’s been keeping from you. She would simply run her knuckles to your moist maxilla and whisper softly, “You’re going to get scared if I tell you.” You’re going to fall in love with her green eyes that remind you of lakes you used to visit every November. As she proofreads her work by the head of the bed, you find solace as you bury yourself in her Stygian hair, hoping Sleep would choose you as his heir. Soon enough, you’ll be craving for that pale, cindery skin that you can’t just seem to divide yourself from. The dreams will attack you and wake you up in the midst of the night, sweaty and shaken. She’s going to kill herself. Then you knock on her door, trying to fight reality with mere fantasies; that she would be alright. You’re going to find her writing a poem by the balcony at 4am, her silent tears the secret to burgeon a withered forest. Arabella writing poems is just as mad as suicide. Her poems could make you feel your own bones shiver. They bring forth morose and they were approved by the full moon. Her fridge consist nothing but leftover takeouts and expired tabasco bottles. Please don’t date a girl like Arabella. She’s going to destroy you. But the sad thing is, even if you don’t know it - you’re going to ruin her more. Arabella is an abandoned euphoria.
Addie S. “Arabella” (via rawanddone)
Arabella is an unusual girl. She likes to have her nails solely in black velvet. Her father sent her to boarding school the moment she turned nine. There she unearth that solitude will never be a problem for her, and so as independence is her best trait. She’s fond of seeing boys as they deteriorate over solid ground, crying as they wail over the love of a girl they never had. They reward a laugh from her. Pity, she’ll always say. You’ll find books wherever she is. There would be one in her bag, near the basket of apples, by the couch, by the covers, by the car, stacked inside her drawers. The tittles of the books are all the ones the library in the small town she grew up had banned. Then there’s her vitality, drowning in the dead sea. She rouses all kinds of fits, you know; frustrated over not opening a chestnut perfectly and kissing parts of you she hasn’t been able to kiss yet, both counted. She’s like smoke, that girl, Arabella. She’s going to make you want to cry. Writing is her religion. Paper and pen are her gods. Ironic how they simply make her closer to death.. Then so are you, for you’re her temple. You know what she collects? Her nail clippings, wilt roses and thoughts of you. Arabella is abreast to her flaws. Even if you kneel in front of her, pleading and crying for her to tell you the things she’s been keeping from you. She would simply run her knuckles to your moist maxilla and whisper softly, “You’re going to get scared if I tell you.” You’re going to fall in love with her green eyes that remind you of lakes you used to visit every November. As she proofreads her work by the head of the bed, you find solace as you bury yourself in her Stygian hair, hoping Sleep would choose you as his heir. Soon enough, you’ll be craving for that pale, cindery skin that you can’t just seem to divide yourself from. The dreams will attack you and wake you up in the midst of the night, sweaty and shaken. She’s going to kill herself. Then you knock on her door, trying to fight reality with mere fantasies; that she would be alright. You’re going to find her writing a poem by the balcony at 4am, her silent tears the secret to burgeon a withered forest. Arabella writing poems is just as mad as suicide. Her poems could make you feel your own bones shiver. They bring forth morose and they were approved by the full moon. Her fridge consist nothing but leftover takeouts and expired tabasco bottles. Please don’t date a girl like Arabella. She’s going to destroy you. But the sad thing is, even if you don’t know it - you’re going to ruin her more. Arabella is an abandoned euphoria.
Addie S. “Arabella” (via rawanddone)

I know you have a habit of speaking in safe words.
I know speaking your mind is hard because your mind has been twisted and manipulated to be a million other things, but never yours.
I know you have a habit of running, of turning away, of hiding, of losing yourself.
I know you are terrified of what it means to be in love.
I know love has been temporary and has been twisted and manipulated to be a million other things, but never yours.

So, here is what I am going to do.
I won’t ever tell you I love you, I will just say, “You are safe here.”
When you feel the need to get away for a weekend, know I will be here when you come back, just say, “Paris is missing me. The bird within my chest needs to breathe” and I will understand.
When your mind is playing tricks on you and you have started to get confused about who you are, cave into me. Let your fears pour into my skin, let my collar bone collect you and keep you safe. Let my hands guide you, let my hands become you, let my hands do what yours cannot.
I won’t ever tell you I love you, I will just say, “You are safe here.”


You are safe here. You are safe here. You are safe here. You are safe here. You are safe here. You are safe here.

Amanda Helm - You are safe here (via amandaspoetry)
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