i wonder if you know that i could talk to you for hours about the most meaningless things, and it would still be the experience of a lifetime.
among the thousands of pages i’ve written, i know there is one constant. you are on every single one.
what would’ve happend, if i didn’t walk into that bar? if i didn’t see your face? if you didn’t steal glances from across the room all night? if you didn’t walk up to me with your crooked smirk? if you didnt leave to get a rose from the convenience store 3 blocks down? if you didn’t ruin my life?
they can keep their guys, because him. he’s mine.
i will close your door but i refuse to lock it.
the rage in me has made my humanity scarce. i will not be quiet about it.
i think i hate hospitals, and the stinky hand soap, and a nurse’s fake smile, and the overhead lighting, and the quiet doctors, and the cold tile floors, and the cheap tissues, and the bland food, and the way you’ll never be the same.
for the first time i am completely fine in my own.
i’m so sick of sadness.
pure bliss is a high i never want to be sober of. i feel on top of the earth my feet have always been glued to. this must be that freedom the wanderers speak of.
desire is such an ugly thing. pure want disguised in wandering fingertips, fingers laced in hair, and glazed over eyes.