meandmylife11

My fingers curl on to the edge. I'm hanging on a cliff side not so parallel with what I wanted. I'd like to say I can't think straight, that a thousand trails of thought got tangled, but in truth they're perfect horizontal lines and lying to myself just isn't worth the effort. I can feel the wind between my toes. I know it means freedom, I know I would be the final link in the daisy chain to break (it's still in that tin box underneath my bed, browned and far too fragile to support its own weight). But I can't erase the thought of what lies below; of what would happen if those wings were born purely of adrenaline, if I folded against the eart

i have forgotten the sound of seasons passing, your voice when you loved me and the touch of a goodbye that never lasts. you leave with fists clenched and doors shut silently, you leave without a word because it's the spaces between your raised words that bruise the most. i whisper words with two syllables and you lodge a loudspeaker in your throat for every goodnight which translates to stop it stop talking shut the fuck up this morning i woke up at the bottom of the stairs, crumbled into nine months of walking backwards and i have been fooled into thinking that bitch really is my name baby, baby, ssh. be quiet. holding fis

And when she kisses you. Do you think of me? It's a tragic love song on an old cassette. The kind whose tape is all worn out from pushing repeat over and over and over again. You can't keep pushing rewind. I started drinking things that look like water but burn when they go down. It's the only thing strong enough. To stop me. Calling you. That one time. In the middle of the night. With the lights out and my words slurred. I'd be lying if I said I didn't remember the times where we would dance in the rain. With places to be. And not enough time to get there. Fuck her. And her barbie blond hair and hour glass body.

It's ten to two and I'm gnawing at the end of my pen because the words aren't flowing like they used to. I've held the hands of many boys but each time someone grabs my wrist I wish it was you. It's ten to two and I'm staring aimlessly into the dark canvas of the sky hoping that maybe I'll see the answer to why I feel like I've lost something. My words are disintegrating on the tip of my tongue leaving a metallic taste of something I probably should have said a long time ago. It's ten to two and I shouldn't be thinking of you but I can't help but remember the day we made our promise for forever

Her fists are slamming into mirrors and plaster. Their pounding is nothing in comparison to what's going on in her head. His voice is a ragged memory of the times when he used to tuck her into bed and brush the curls she got from him from her forhead. The tears are streaming down her face, burning her cheeks on their way down to her collarbone. She's choking on his fucking words. But she can't throw up his adjectives. There are shards of glass in her palms and in them she can see her reflection. Dark eyes.from her mom. Curly hair. from him. There's blood in her mouth from her biting her lips to stop from screami

It's the way they never say hello. But her body fits perfectly into his. The silent exchange of how do you do's are said with their eyes. It's how a single smirk, a invisible thread pulling upon upper lips can reduce them both to "drop to your knees laughter." It's how you can get caught in the rain and be more worried about the pizza box that is liquifying in your hands than what your hair is doing or who is looking at you funny. It's memories that are preserved in silver picture frames. The kind that wrinkle with age but never completely fade away. It's the way her neck always glitters with sparrowdoves. The way he