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For those who didn’t make it ’til morning.
Grief was like a fever, she said. I just had to let it run its course. Sweat it out, just sweat it out, baby. She didn’t account for the fact that some fevers don’t break on their own. That sometimes you have to do something drastic in order to heal. Sometimes the only option is to flee. Run. Run, run, run...
There’s only so much time a person’s allowed to grieve before it becomes an inconvenience, I’ve come to learn. Before the clock speeds up, and the world goes on spinning without you, you either pull yourself out in time to catch up, or you get left behind. That’s just the way it goes.
Loneliness is freeing.
Maybe I’m just replacing one ghost with another. Seeking out something I’ve just built up in my head all these years, that, in reality, amounts to nothing at all.
It’s not like I have anything left to lose. Not anymore. I’m free in all the wonderful and horrible ways a person could be free.
A cucumber does not one make by giving a fuck, or whatever it is Yoda says. Not only is caring a neon-sign pointing to where someone should kick to make it count, but it makes you accountable. And I’d rather have no expectations of me whatsoever, thank you very much.
She’s like a kitten who’s gotten wet one too many times in life so her claws are perpetually out and ready to strike.
she’s got that whole “don’t fuck with me” thing down to an art form.
We all have our battle armor, I suppose.
Waylon taps the mic a couple times, waiting for the crowd to quiet. Smirking, he presses his mouth to where his fingers just were. “Hi.” Annnndddddd there goes my boxers.
I don’t think I’m breathing as I wait for this moment to reach its peak. As I wait for the world to continue spinning. As I wait for the rock in my throat to dislodge itself, shattering into a million pieces of whatever this is. Look at me. I know I have no right. I know I shouldn’t crave it. But something inside me—familiar and ancient—is whispering. It crescendos into a pulse in my ears that drowns everything else out but his voice, as the moment where his eyes will finally meet mine rushes toward me with the force and inevitability of a bullet. A frown burrows between his brows as he seems
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Art is a lot like a parasite. An invasion of undeniable need to share your soul with the world. To try and make the world a little better than how you found it. It consumes you to the point of desperation. Begging you to just let it out; see me, hear me.
We all do what we can to keep going every day; that’s life for you. Let us have our vices and kindly shut the fuck up.
It didn’t take long to stumble down this rabbit hole. Will’s profile was still mostly private, like it was when I last searched for him years ago. Not that we’re going to think about that.
We’re wrestling and laughing—laughing so hard I think I might throw up from the ache twisting in my chest. I didn’t know pain could feel so good.
“Straight isn’t the default, even if the rest of the world hasn’t caught up yet.”
Whoever decided there’s some arbitrary age constraint on finding your damn soulmate is clearly just as much of a dumbass as whoever decided that the weight of death couldn’t be measured.
“The sun will always rise again.” I shrug. “You just need to make it through the night. Take it day by day—moment by moment if you need to—until you reach the other side. Nothing lasts forever.”
“Maybe I like being sad.” His eyes drift to some point beyond me. “When you’re sad, nothing else really matters anymore.”
the key to making peace with the dark, was to make peace with myself. She said, as long as I remain honest with myself, I’ll be a lot less scared of the truths the dark may reveal.”
“Because in the end, the only thing we have to fear in the dark are the things we run from in the light of day.”
Hearts are not known for their patience after all—they only ever just want what they want, when they want it, with no regard for the consequences.
“This is your life. The only one you’ve got. Don’t let that asshole win. If you need to talk, you know where to find me.”
I am drowning. Drowning in overwhelming want for this guy. This fucking guy who just told me I was once his everything, when I was sure I was only ever his nothing.
“You might not be able to trust what you feel,” I tell him, easing my hand back so I’m no longer touching him, “but your body doesn’t lie.” I lean forward just enough to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “It fucking sings for me.”
I don’t want a label. I don’t want any label. Pretending I was straight was just easy, because it’s the...default.” I scoff. “God, I hate that.” He smiles, eyes shining with something I can’t name. “It’s not, though. It’s just what we’ve been taught to believe.”
“Where there’s a will, there’s a way, right?” He smirks knowingly. “Kind of inevitable, wouldn’t you say?”
It’s the last day of September and the nights are already frigid as fuck.
There’s a very fine line between respecting someone else’s wishes, and maintaining your own sense of worth. Between protecting them, and hurting yourself. A very fine line.
“What the hell is going on?” Waylon demands. Jeremy glances down, face bunched with something like shame. I suddenly get the feeling we’re missing something here. Something big.
“It’s September fourteenth,” someone mumbles. “Oh, is that the day—”
