people tell me i will survive. that i won’t be able to remember this one day. that i will get over it. and maybe i will. but i will not forget. my blood, and my bones, and my cells, and my sprint won’t let me. they will never let me recover from you.
i saw an entire life with you as soon as we met.
i feel new. and fresh. and pure. and god it feels fleeting.
when you come home and hold me, my anger and rage is soothed, and i am not a mad woman, but i am your happy wife.
”your hair gets curly when are in love aliza, and i know those curls weren’t there before”
his smile is so perfect. crooked and smug, but perfect for him.
i feel so loved for a mere second, then it is ripped away by fake niceties. i only wish that the prophecy could be rewritten so that a single soul is obsessed with mine.
i’ll pray to little orange bottles or stuffy waiting rooms if it meant you would just get better.
just because you are not mine, doesn’t mean i can’t wish you were.