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when that hope takes up so much space inside your rib cage that it’s hard to eat or breathe in, you have to dismiss the things that make sense to make room for it. It’s a survival thing.
Maybe it wasn’t the curtains that were wrong; maybe it was her whole life.
She was free and sad and excited and weightless and so, so, so unbearably heavy.
Wasn’t that what the entire punk
scene was about? Rejecting the mainstream? Individuality and nonconformity and brash, bold self-confidence, flying in the face of what society perceived to be beautiful?
Your life is just frayed at the edges, and you have whole haunted cities full of people who owe you explanations and apologies. Cities full of ghosts.
That just because someone leaves you, that doesn’t mean that you are not still perfectly fine and valuable, and it definitely doesn’t mean you should leave yourself.
