When you miss someone….it’s weird…your body doesn’t function normally..as it should. Because I miss you, and my heart…it’s not steady…my soul it sings numb. Fingers are cold…like you…your soul.
I wore your promise on my finger for one yearI’ll wear your name on my heart til I dieBecause you were my boy, you were my only boy forever.
Her heart had grown so familiar to the pain of life without him, that to respond now seemed too large a pleasure she could not endure. If pain was love, then she loved fiercely. Yet knew she could not be near that boy again.
He brought out the worst in me, and was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Growth in love comes from a place of absence, where the imagination is left to it’s own devices and creates you to be much more then reality would ever allow.
When we are in love, we are convinced nobody else will do. But as time goes, others do do, and often do do, much much better.
I want your most vital organ. I want it to be mine.
…..she needed him to know she did not care. She was spirited, tenacious, and full of contempt for him.
You cannot mistake thisYou cannot reinvent this moment You cannot call this loveIt is so much more
You don’t deserve my image in your head. You don’t deserve my memories in your chest.
You’re a mess, I confess, I despise you in the best kind of way.
He’s an indulgent sort of man……With a quick lip and a fierce tongue, the sort of tongue that draws you in with charm and words of praise, awkward silences and desperate worships.
My lips are fierce with passion. My heart spins fiery beats. A rhythm lives within my fingers and dances in my feet.
He offered her power, money, status…a giant prison, all in exchange for only…her soul.
He cared less, so they cared more. He said it was beautiful. I knew he was broken.This was his game.
Bittersweet? No, just bitter, the taste of your tongue.Words you can’t have back, so they linger.
I won’t let you have it. I won’t give you this moment. I won’t let you fill up this valuable organ…I own it. I won’t do it. I can’t think, I won’t think about it.
I HOLDIf I could have had him,I could have let himgo.But withoutthe having there was nothing—so to the nothingIhold.
And I don’t even like you, but the pain of life without you is biting.
She stabbed him with her wicked pretty knife, disrupted his simple life.She’s a player, a heartbreaker,and now she breaks alone.
I wait, you play. You speak, I cave. I promise, you break. You game me, daily, you play me.
….finally I see that it’s never been me, just a blanket that keeps you warm. Easily tossed alongwhen something flashier or someone prettier comes along. Your heart I held so carefully, I see, this was all just a game…
MY MOONI’ll always wonder what time it is there; if you’re dreaming, or awake. My moon is your sun; my darkness, your light. I’m in the future, you’d jokingly say.And I know where you are, because I’m watching you from the past.
A WISHSometimes I wish that he will liveand I will see him.But mostly I wish that he will die, and take my memories with him.
The world I held so closely, she played me like a game,I released and left her laughing to stand on my own two feet.
I’m mistaken….for thinking you were someone with a heart worth breaking.
Maybe she had it wrong all this time and her empty heart could never be filled by his ingenious broken spirit. Maybe this yearning had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with her.
Now he was nothing to her, just a lesson in time, a wicked boy-man, incapable of wealth or prestige.
Writers do not have the privilege of sleep. There is always a story coming alive in their heads, constantly composing. Whether they choose it or not.
I want your hand without the skin. Bone to bone without the molds. Mouth to mouth, without the porn.
You break me the hardest, make me the strongest, and keep me the softest.
But every spiteful word she ever wrote him was effortless love clenched in her fists. Her heart screaming for stability in this fiery game of desire.
I miss your silent stature, your avoided days of disaster, your present state of distress.I’m cinnamon, cloves and fire, you are the rested cedarwood of desire.
Tricks ripped and you tripped, tricked yourself by falling slowly.I’m the winner in this game,unable to stoop to your level of shame.Unwilling to reply to your words of ache.
Defend myself? I cannot defend the verbal repressions of a boy. A curmudgeonly, cantankerous, ill-tempered, counterfeit boy.
…I feel like a traitor, a phony, a fake. But I am a hypocrite with the best intentions, and I need kissing desperately.
If I wasn’t so phenomenal. I would go back to you.
I near felt bad he choose to be so evil to me. I am a forgiving woman, but my pen… oh my wicked wicked hormonal she-pen.
Time to get a go on this drop-dead-gorgeous morning.