my problem with writing stories is that i’d rather imagine it and play it out in my mind than actually put it into words
From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them, and that is eternity.
I want you. I want your sleepy confused look when you wake up, and the smile that follows. I want to be the warmth that fills the space in your bed. I don’t want to share you.
The fucking thought of you with somebody else, I don’t like that.
People will kill you over time, and how they’ll kill you is with tiny, harmless phrases, like “be realistic”.
We used to have so much fun
Now everything is different
Wish we could have kept everything at a distance