pracy777

You are a calculated mistake – something that I've known is wrong from the very start. And I wake up next to you every morning lately, praying that your split lips don't sink me – even though I know it's too late. You're already taking me under, because, baby – you're heavy like hurricane. Like a thousand drops of rain pounding down on my shoulder blades. You're seeping into my skin and into my bloodstream. It's only a matter of time until you spread to my heart. It's too late. I'm already drowning in you. It's too late, but god, I cannot love you. You're like the last boy I kissed – which means I should already b

You looked. I glanced. We met. I smiled. You smiled back. A sentence here. A metaphor there. A memory we both found beyond repair. I shared. You listened. You shared. I heard. You paused. And then I kissed you. We're happy. Fingers pressed skin. Then danced apart. I teased. You laughed. You joked. I grinned. Stairwells were dreamcatchers. Stars were destinies. Guitars became epiphanies. More words. More memories. More to admit. More to regret. You were damaged. I was broken. We're happy. You stopped smiling. I didn't laugh. Words began to go unspoken. Regrets emerged. Fingers didn't touch. Lips faltered. Stairwells were nightmare holders.

I can't even pretend things are simple anymore. It's raining again, and with every crash of thunder, I miss you more than I can bear. I know it's not worth saying, because really nothing much is anymore, but it doesn't make it any less true. It's eleven ten on a Friday night, and I'm sitting in the middle of the grass, watching the downpour spill off the roof. My t-shirt is clinging to my ribcage, and my hair is sticking to my face. I can feel the water running down the ridges of my spine, the backs of my hands, clumping in my eyelashes, but still, I don't move. Sometimes, when I can't stand what the world is doing anymore, I allow myself a

"The world's never going to accept me for who I am, so why make it any easier for them?" You were never quite put together or uniform in your appearance or your actions. Hair would either be styled into some intricate and crazy pattern, or not at all, still in the messy, tangled form it was in when you rolled out of bed this morning. Outfits would never remotely match; plaid ties with bright orange vests and vividly-colored rain boots. Anyone who ever passed you by on the streets would give a double take. I think you scared many of the normal people of society. You'd do things like color a duck in a coloring book with bright pink scribble

For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up. I woke up with this bone-deep ache that never went away. I woke up to an incessant question playing in my mind that would never be answered. I woke up alone. For two hundred and eighty four days, I woke up without you when I woke up at all. The thing about time is that it never does make anything better. It just means more space to think. It means sleepless nights trying to figure it all out. When it went wrong. How to make it better. It means slowly losing my mind. But it never once meant getting over you. It's funny how the things you think you've forgotten always come rushing back when you

                She wore barbed wire necklaces so that every time she laughed, it hurt.                 Little Freckles Frankie was the first to make her laugh so hard she bled. He was ten, she was eleven. I don’t think he has found anything funny since.  It was too bad really, baby blue eyes tend to twinkle when they laugh.                                   I caught her countin

She bites her tongue in self-disgust as she traces the words "I love you" down her arm compulsively, (she no longer knows how to say anything else) and runs his white shirt sleeve across her lower lip to wipe away the blood. It's 3 hours until midnight and she's watching them, in her bed. * There's still a thin film of dust layered across her skin from when he brushed the ashes of her citadel off his shoulder. She knows there's no putting the pieces back together again, not with the smell of his cologne in her nose. Her mosaic walls a soft powder beneath her feet. She doesn't try. She walks. * The cliffs of Ireland cannot win against t

So. For the past 24 hours we have spent our time frantically looking for a reason to be something other than what we were. We stood beneath red stoplights and sat on park benches and drove and drove and drove because we couldn't think of anything we would rather do more than feel like we were passing the world by, instead of it passing us by. We waited on phone calls that we knew were never going to come and hoped fervently that the next song to come on the radio would be worth crying over because then at least we'd have an excuse to cry. If we talked to ourselves briefly I promise that it was only to inform ourselves that we are pathet