Wet Evening in April by Patrick Kavanagh
no bc i’m genuinely so fucking lonely rn i need to have the shit beaten out of me just for the physical contact
unstoppable force (wanting to be the kindest version of myself) vs immovable object (all the anger and hatred I have inside myself)
All my teenage years, I had bottled up anger and grief and promised myself I'd never cry but when I sat down with her hands in my hand and looked her in the eye, all the anger turned into tears. I sobbed for hours and she sat there, rubbing my back. That's when I saw. Growing up is also tearing down walls, it's also letting go of the anger.
-Ritika Jyala, excerpt from The Flesh I Burned
Just wondering, if I was a fictional character, how people would have adored me inspite of my flaws and craved for my existence in their lives.