4,262 notes Come over. Brush your teeth in my old hockey jersey, tell me if it feels right and I will see if I don’t mind it. Go home, sleep on it, see if your bed feels cold or your shirts feel too new, too clean and kept to yourself. I will try and see if I have the space to share.You.My shirts. My warmth. My toothpaste. A drawer. A hanger for that dress you’ll wear. Me.

Come over. Brush your teeth in my old hockey jersey, tell me if it feels right and I will see if I don’t mind it.
Go home, sleep on it, see if your bed feels cold or your shirts feel too new, too clean and kept to yourself.

I will try and see if I have the space to share.
You.
My shirts.
My warmth.
My toothpaste.
A drawer.
A hanger for that dress you’ll wear.
Me.

(Source: flores-mortas, via marshallh)

0 notes
Today

I was informed how much I messed up.

To tell the truth, this was a moment where I did nothing wrong, yet I feel more guilty about messing up because I failed to realize how someone could see my actions as harmful.

I cannot, and should not speak about mistakes I’ve made, and yet I find that once again I am stuck with this overwhelming regret for something I doubt I will ever feel less accountable and sorry for, even in twenty years.

I still feel bad about throwing mud in a kids eye in first grade, even though he flung a pile at me first, and was pushed from behind by that horrible nuisance kev-wait.

No.

I do things, and I regret them.

That is my task and my burden.

But why?