*Yours Truly*

Status: Happyhappyhappy with a surprise center of 100% sadness from concentrate
Joined: December 16, 2012
Last Seen: 3 weeks
user id: 342267
Location: Hell
Gender: F
 
{you will only find broken things here.
Enjoy your stay}
Pisces/Writer/A little absent
I'm in love with everything I've ever had, and everyone I ever met
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Quotes by *Yours Truly*

☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
I don't look at the world the way I once did.
I use to find words in silent places,
like the space between two yearning hands,
or the waiting room of a hospital.
Lately I only see in black and white,
lately, I don't find poetry between the lines.
Lately I find myself becoming more and more unfeeling.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
You can call something home, and still feel
okay to leave for a while.

That is why I always return here.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
I don't want to be a flower, I want to be an evergreen
Don't tell me I must die and come back only in Spring
I want to breathe in the cold of winter and live in the tears of autumn
I want to watch cities crumble, and people rebuild what's left
There are meteors waiting to collide with us,
this is just the beginning.
I don't want to be a flower, I want to be an evergreen
I'm tired of having wilted petals, and tender hands caressing me
I am sturdy, I hold my own
I want to constantly renew myself until the rest of the world
doesn't stand a chance.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
The sunken in couch cushions remind me of
your absence when it's late at night, and I'm
waiting for texts that won't come. Somewhere
you're asleep in a bed that we should've been
sharing, but the only thing that fills the
places your warm breath should have been is
the dull ringing in my ears from your silence.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
iloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyouiloveyou
with no spaces in between, no room for any
exceptions.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
Call me crazy. Call the universe cruel.
Call my mother on the phone, with
an apology she’ll never believe. Call
me soulmate, I never believed in them
anyway. Call to ask how I’m doing.
Call for all of your kitchen dances
and hazey car kisses back. Call
my name in your sleep, call it when
you unravel.

☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
You ask my why all of my writing sounds
sad, but you don't understand the way it
manifests. The way my words are strung
fairy lights, in an empty house at
midnight, trying to make all of the dark
edges beautiful again.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
I've been thinking about your kiss pressed
to the flat of my shoulder blade at 3 a.m.,
and what forever feels like, and what the
difference is between the two. I remember
standing in the snow, both of your
hands encasing mine, with all of our
promises in our palms. They were precious,
and sparkling, and we kept them warm.
I want to worry about white bedsheets,
and burning dinner, but I don't know how
to do that when I'm worrying about getting
through each night. I still have the picture
from the night you tried to save me.
I'm sorry, it didn't work.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
We are soft, malleable things behind our
brittle masks. We dance to the music of
of our dying days, and the champagne tastes
a little bit like sadness, but maybe if we
drink enough of it we will drown. I'm sick
of wanting things I can't have. I'm sick
of feeling sick, with my life, with myself.
I'm sick of gritting my teeth for people
who would sooner punch through them.
I'm sick of smiling for a world that doesn't
want to look me in the eyes.

☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
I'm sorry I can't get out of bed today.
All of this baggage cripples me like a demon
on my back. I thought leaving would
make things easier to bear, but I've never
heard of someone choking on panic
over the feathers they carry in their pockets.
I keep with me all of the hatchets that
were ever buried into my skin while I
stood helpless, though none of them
will ever be evidence for the murder
of the girl I once was--I keep them for
the feel of blood on my fingers.
It reminds me of home.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾