I am 23 years old and still come crying to my mother.
Your hands didn’t even tremble as you flung me in purgatory.
Snuggle into another cause this one is mine. And you’ve kept it warm for me.
I’m starting to look into eyes of lovers like sand in an hourglass, I can see us slipping.
I wrote a blog post that was horrible. Claudia said, “People won’t relate.”
Is this how it happens? Do you fake it until you make it or, at least, until you work up the nerve to open the door, and invite yourself into your own life?
A lot of my life has been denial. I don’t think I really understood that until now.
I am too hooked on tomorrows that will never happen with the one who never intended for me to swim into his net.
How heavy it must be carrying a head so full. Not of brains, but of overinflated ego.
I wanted to be home, but I just didn’t feel like hitting the gas anymore.