daisylongmile

There’s a girl sitting up in your bed. Her hair is too long from the winters she stayed inside, her tongue the taste of corner store cigarettes, and the smell of her smooth honey shampoo will linger after she’s gone; stick to your comforter and you’ll fall asleep believing she’s beside you.

There’s a girl sitting up in your bed. She tells you she loves you so much it weaves her nerves like a ball of yarn, leaves her in stomachaches too strong to sleep through. Out your window, she watches the night crawl out from under the horizon and says that leaving you might be her biggest mistake, but her body’s become sore from carrying her heart’s weight. She says you have left her more bruised that street market peaches, and she can’t believe she’s thrown her time away like rocks across the water.

There is a girl sitting up in your bed. You have been two months too scared to touch her, but can’t help but think about the way she slips under your covers like a question you haven’t been brave enough to ask. You’ve slept by each other’s side like an accident; the way fresh water rivers and the salt of the ocean draw lines where they meet. But never have you dared to taste her, open your mouth and spill every second you’ve wondered about her, every little thing she does or doesn’t mean to you. She’s held out her hands some days, not to present you with all her broken pieces, but with empty, open palms, so patient to take in all that you are.

There is a shape of her still left when you tear all the sheets off to analyze the crime scene, still trying to identify what went wrong. The evidence is hard to see with red hands, harder to calculate when she’s gone, but there’s a spotlight in your stomach, a guilt too hot to shake.
The only thing that’s farther from our grasps than the moon, is reaching for something—someone
who’s already gone.

daisylongmile  "Last Call" (via daisylongmile)

Recovery

It’s like watching colour films until the age of two, then watching black and white films until now, you don’t remember what the colour films look like but you know they were better then this. You work so hard to find those colour films again, sometimes you are close enough to see them but they are always just out of reach. It’s painful, frustrating, but you keep trying. When you finally reach them, it’s beautiful, the colours are brighter then they ever were before.
It’s like walking through a dark, endless tunnel and finally coming out the other side. There were obstacles that pushed you back, but you overcame them, and you are proud.
The world is more beautiful than ever, even a crying baby is a beautiful sound. Your empathy is huge and you notice things, things no one else ever would.
You are the definition of beautiful because you made it through hell but you came out an angel. You go to bed early and wake up early, you watch the sunrise and smile at strangers.You are so kind, because you know what hell is like and that not everyone makes it out alive.

santa-pjs-in-july

santa-pjs-in-july:

Right now, theres a cute boy sitting in a coffee shop. He keeps glancing at the clock because today he’s going to meet his girlfriend. But soon, she’s going to show up. She’s going to tell him that they can’t be together anymore. She’ll leave him sitting confused in that coffee shop and an hour…

So I finally got over my ex. He thinks that I told someone who he likes and he doesn’t believe me when I say I didn’t. He and his friends (used to be mine too) are now calling me horrible names. Great for my depression. Didn’t want to go to school today because of it….which is why I’m here