We were all loved so imperfectly,
it's hard not to hate those that weren't.
The ones who don't flinch when they think about the past, but laugh.
And I've been trying to repaint the pictures hanging in those frames, soft from memory
Trying to find new shades and
Trying to admire the ways
That they are unique. They are mine. They're worth keeping.

I've considered suicide. She's attempted it four times. That could be our battle cry - "we never asked to be alive"
But now we're here
And what do we do?
In a place where there's no pity for ****-ups or pale scars on wrists or empty bowls burning from final embers, their lungs inhaling it so beautifully.

I never smoked it, but I'm in love with the silver dragons that swirl in the air all around it. I could watch it pour from their lips for hours, could soak in the sweet stench for days, could count away everything else until I count down to nothing.
Nothing. But here.

No more worries or chores or judgments or wondering what people think of me or caring too much or trying too hard and failing, failing.
He tells me that he's changed. Of course I still love him.
But it will never be the same.