We make sense only after the sun has died and the moon begins to breathe and we’ve sought shelter underneath our blankets.

I’ve never been good at pretty metaphors or painting dreams onto pieces of paper but if I told you I wanted to write about it, you’d be the first to proof read the catastrophe.

I’ve bared witness to our secrets becoming our strengths and I’ve felt our tears become the ocean.

There are dead roses planted at the bottom of my rib cage and you...slow time down long enough for me to believe that I have it.

I promise I never meant to make a home out of your heart but somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting wars and started sinking cities.

You sit there on the edge of your bed at seventeen wondering where the hell it all went wrong.
Growing up didn’t seem so awful until you realized that eventually you’re going to fall in love with a beautiful girl, and she’s going to tell you she loves you back but not until she loads her gun.
So you keep sitting there, at the edge of your bed, praying that she loves the color of your eyes more than she loves the smell of the flowers she’s going to place at your grave.
But she doesn’t.
She never did.
So at seventeen, you decide to jump.
You jump off your bed and the fall seems to go on forever.
But your bed was never a bed, it was the pedestal she had you on for fifteen months and you finally had the courage to take that leap of faith and free yourself.
Except freedom isn’t freedom if you’re still shackled up and chained at the bottom of the oceans in her eyes and helplessly addicted to the satin feel of her skin. You scream and scream, but nothing can break the silence.

That’s when you realize she pulled the trigger and didn’t even kiss you goodbye.

I have this bad habit of unintentionally giving people my consent, allowing them to walk all over my heart without ever asking them to take off their shoes before they step inside my soul.

You get sunshine and hot coffee.
While I'm stuck with cloudy skies and an empty stomach.
My mother never taught me anything about falling in love or how to water a dying plant, but growing up in the dark made me realize that crying into your pillow at two in the morning doesn't make you weak. And laughing so hard that your bones ache, doesn't make you whole.
But sometimes I find myself crying or laughing while hoping that you miss me.
Sometimes I even convince myself that you do.
Even if I know that you don't.