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He was everything I never could, but always wanted to love.

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Be patient with me, dear heart. The art of loving is a peculiar business when one has spent an eternity hating themselves.
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Pleasure or pain; I’ll take either as long as it is laced with passion.
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Every now and then even the sweetest souls burn it to the ground, just to remind the rest of them who exactly they are fucking with.
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He left love letters at my door, and a chalk outline on the highway.
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She tasted like wildflowers; crushed, wet wild flowers carried in sticky palms through farmers’ fields, just before dawn.
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You can’t tame a girl who has her head. In the clouds and one foot out the door.
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How recklessly we turn from strangers and blindly back to lovers, to nothing.
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On paper I have killed you a thousand times but my heart disregards clever words.
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I swear if I were to rip myself open, it wouldn’t be blood that poured out of me, it would be him.
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Blood Himself Love Myself
I have been covered in easy kisses from uneasy lips, and I know I smell weary again.
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I will not force a pretty smile upon my face to please eyes that no longer see me.
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I breathe him in so deep that when he is gone I exhale and taste him again.
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Dance with me. Bring my demons to their knees.
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One day I will fall gracefully to pieces. Until then, I’ll just fall.
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I drink to the ones that can sit with their souls and not wish for sleep and the nightmares it brings.
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I like my soul when it touches yours; winter turns to summer and my nightmares become dreams.
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