“I keep everything inside; I am
a wine cellar of unsaid things.
This is why my love letters burn
like whiskey - every word is
fermented with all the fluff
evaporated off. I love in a way
that leaves people on the floor.”
— anne, on why you feel drunk when I write to you

You are my soul
You are my strength
You are everything to me
The fact that you constantly ignore me breaks my heart
I miss hearing you calling my name
Sorry for what I've done that made you like this.

She thought she was a part of something
But she caught up in sorrow
It's over she thought

She wanted someone to save her
Out from the dark circle
Hopelessly helpless
She waited but no one comes.

I cried at midnight
Knowing that I feel sorry for myself
For all the things I have done
People repay my kindness with *******
I apologize for the things I have done
Because I know whatever I do, it's never enough
I hate myself too much or not at all

She is a succubus
Darker than ever and wilder than her thought
She is nothing but a bundle of hopeless joy
Willing to do anything to escape but she's stucked
Stucked in her own body that she know longer familiar with

Madre.
She always has this thought that everything i eat is not good/haraam.
Because unlike her, i rarely go to local restaurants and eat local food.
She always has this thought that every weird words I used has a ****-like meaning.

Madre.
I've been living with you for 18 years and still.
Yet you still have no idea who I am.
Don't you?