these words, they tremble off of my cracking lips like leaves shaking in the bitter winter breeze, quivering with their feeble effort to hold on.

maybe, if they tried harder to cling on they wouldn't have gotten hurt.

(maybe if i had tried harder to become beautiful i wouldn't have gotten hurt.)


they day you broke my heart it splattered into a million little puddles of simmering sunset, and sometimes i wish that i were as beautiful as my blood.

that masochist will always live in the hideous empty space between my ribs where some sort of important muscle should be. i bet that you're better now, now that you have two hearts and i have none.

(but then again, the masochist in me kind of likes the way that my empty heart-space feels as though it has been filled with some sort of corrosive acid, eating away at the fringes of my nerves and sanity.)


it's so cold outside that my nose and cheeks turn red, which i guess is sort of really good because then no one will be able to tell how hard i've been crying over you.


sometimes i feel like i'm dying in winter's frigid embrace because of how cold and numb and utterly terrified i have become. then i remember that i'm in love.