Because you have to start somewhere or at least that's what I tell myself.
I bought myself carnations because I had to stop to smell something.
[His closet was curated with self-awarness. The realization that someone could be so sure of themselves, the realness of a human being to an outsider, it took her breath away.]
You can say it every night when you crawl into your bed, filthy with hungover bread crumbs and an aspirin bottle, but today you really mean it. You don't believe in love. Not the kind that is singular or capitalized, accentuated with paper announcements and dotted with public kisses. The only love that exists is between the ideal and the pain of not having. You feed it with melancholy melodies and pages and pages of words written by decades of alcoholics, sucking out the buzz with every line and calling it infatuation.
this is the nature of the
cyclical masochist:
we replace habits with other habits,
content to believe we're improving ourselves.
I'm always hesitant to write about someone so new because within a month or so everything will be covered with a different filter and those words I wrote just a few weeks earlier will seem vulgar or overly zealous, shameful and naive.
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