The time is 2:19 a.m. and I sit sullenly at my sad excuse for a desk, typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing. My vocabulary escapes me at this hour. All I want is to fall into purple-hazed dreams and maybe not feel what it feels like to want and want so desperately that it stings. I think back to old friends, acquaintances, lovers, enemies (if there is such a thing anymore) and I try to imagine what they think of me now.
Sure, I don’t have all of my boxes checked off and maybe I don’t have everything I need or want yet. But maybe I don’t really need those things after all.
I came to realize that there’s something missing in my life. But that piece is still unknown. Maybe a person? A touch? A drink? I don’t know.
We really have no control over anything. And for a certifiable control freak like myself, that’s not just unnerving. It’s paralyzing.
If you’ve ever wondered what your favorite writers use on their skin, look no further.
I’ve probably googled the height for every male celebrity there is and I feel like I can confidently say they’re all 5’6.”
On the night my boyfriend has a seizure after his 50th alcohol detox, we are placed in a room next to the ER psych ward.
Our lives are struggles, to bear witness, to speak out, to stand for something which we believe is worth standing for.
When you met him, you knew he was broken, but you saw past that and looked at all the good in his heart.