Pulsatilla to help. Distant from. Persistent smoke pouring. Photo of boredom. Soho and never. Ending because I feel like I'm gonna throw up this neon peering through the hair, the shakes. **** it's cold.
sadness took my hand and refused to let go. I couldn't stop shivering, and she was the reason why. I acknowledged her words then told her, "it's not you, it's me," let go of her hand, and felt warm again.
‘tis the season, of coldness. my frost-bitten figertips are sick of the cold. my red nose and rosy cheeks burning from the snow. i wish i could drown in the hot-cocoas i long for. my shivering arms and cold toes just want to be warm. the darkness of the winter makes the darkness in my mind find it’s way back. spark me a flame— thaw my cold heart and hands. remind me of warm thoughts, the summer sun, the burning of hot sand— ugh, there’s only snowflakes and frost. i guess i’ll deal until the warmness finds its way back.
but today the breeze penetrates my clothes straight to the bone, shivering without your warmth the universe knows what today is as if it were someway to make today one of mourning my father's birthday and the day I learned you never loved me the day I mourn the love of the men I crave the day I mourn a love they are not capable of giving me.