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Life is nothing without suffering.
I’m talking about the quiet kind of suffering, reserved for the empty space between existing and living. Not pretty. Not sellable. Not inspirational. It’s more of a deafening ache that never abates.
Micah’s intense mood swings and unstable mental health are conducive to one thing, and that’s creating stunning pieces of art.
I don’t need anyone attempting to rationalise the madness that runs riot inside my brain.
She looks like a fallen angel, all broken dreams and pain, wrapped into a shell of bittersweet beauty.
“I’m not your damn therapist. You want a wet blanket to cry on, then you’re looking at the wrong man. Need me to shoot a motherfucker, or skin a dead deer, I’m all over it.”
“Head over fucking heels, babe. I don’t give a shit about whether I have to share you. All I want is the privilege of owning a piece of your heart.”
“I fucking love the bones of you.”
My heart wasn’t available, but that didn’t stop you from stealing it regardless.
