presliedanielle
I'm trying to figure out who I can talk to that won't think I'm crazy when I tell them I still cry myself to sleep at night and that I lay in bed replaying every day I ever spent with you.
I have every right to hate you. I just can't figure out how.
I wondered where I had gone wrong. Everything had felt so perfect up until that point. Did I say the wrong thing? Did I not smile the right way? I was convinced there was some sort of terrible character flaw that was latched on to me, that everyone could see, and I was honestly ashamed.
Basic. Basically. Basically, what it boils down to is this: You ruined everything. But I am secretly glad you're gone. As much as it hurts to say that. Because I feel new.
The bench was cold on her legs, but the night air felt sublime on her flushed face. Every night is a good night for bad decisions.
The only taste that stood out to me was the sage. I'd had too much to drink already and things were starting to run together. A guy named Drew told me I was beautiful and that I deserved more than this. I fought with myself for the rest of the night about whether or not to believe him.
I'm trying to invent a reason that I can cope with. He says that I changed to be who he wanted to be. I only ever wanted to be with him. He says God told him to do it. I say he's inventing that.
Coping is overrated, right?
The wool socks were itchy on her ankles, but she didn't mind. The socks were almost the only thing she had left to remember her mother.
It seemed like every day, her mother was in her chair, knitting pair after pair of socks, all colors, all sizes.
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nightsocksmotherpairtryingbasicallywrongfigurewoolitchyanklesmindrememberchairknittingcolors