your love bled just like the pen did everytime it tried to fill in the empty pages; and just like that it ended just the same. for all that was left now were stories. and only the stories remained.
i never truly minded having these aches if it were to mean that my heart was still beating. i would still prefer this over most days where I feel like my soul has been ****** out of everything.
so at the very least - thank you for reminding me that my soul still resides in this body that you've left hanging with nothing to bleed out but words.
but you have a terrible habit of glancing up at the sky then looking down fast as if you were telling yourself that you had no right to admire its beauty
do not be deceived with the illusion that I've painted; you'd think I'd be the calm after the storm; but inside this ball of sunshine, I am nothing but a raging storm.