Punk 57

by Penelope Douglas

Ryen. The beautiful, perfect girl who’s so different from all the others. I run my hand over my forehead and through my hair, my throat tightening into a knot and my eyes burning. Fuck. I put the pen to the paper and scrawl what my goddamn heart can only whisper. I miss you every day, I write. You’re my favorite place.

Eventually we all have to weigh what we want more: wanting back what we had or wanting what could be. To stay or to risk everything to move forward.

Anything to not need you, Anything to not fall for you, Anything to look at a girl who’s not you, But baby, there’s nothing but you.

sentences said the same thing when they committed