Fuck you perfectionism. Without you, I am brilliant.
She has been trying to pull her worth from him for so long. She has been trying to extract her beauty from his skin. She has been dying to be loved by him again...but he will always leave her empty
She stopped caring... and started laughing.
I won't let you have it. I won't give you this moment. I won't let you fill up this valuable organ...I own it. I won't do it. I can't think, I won't think about it.
And I don't even like you, but the pain of life without you is biting.
I hate you. I hate you like the girl who hates cake because it makes her fat and she can't stop eating it.
She had missed him so long now, that the feeling had become a part of her. As each day passed, the missing distanced itself from her heart. One day she woke, and realized the missing was there but the pain was gone. Missing without pain is tolerable. Pain linked to heartache is intolerable.
And why is it that time speeds and slows depending on your attendance? I'd like a steady clock, a reliable clock, isolated from the progressive beating of my heart.
If I wasn't so phenomenal. I would go back to you.
I am torn open, unabridged, hot and a bit crazy inside. This is the feeling which belongs to me, she has always been mine.
Bittersweet? No, just bitter, the taste of your tongue. Words you can't have back, so they linger.
I'm mistaken. for thinking you were someone with a heart worth breaking.
Maybe she had it wrong all this time and her empty heart could never be filled by his ingenious broken spirit. Maybe this yearning had nothing to do with him, and everything to do with her.
I had hoped to be disliked by most, not by way of rebellion, but by way of excellence, disdain for the habitual, and the common man's inability to grasp this. The act of being scorned? I saw it as a victory, my irreverent boast against this world which could never fully quench me.
I want your most vital organ. I want it to be mine.
Some girls need men to take them places. Others just click their heels, spread their own wings, and fly.
Growth in love comes from a place of absence, where the imagination is left to it's own devices and creates you to be much more then reality would ever allow.
Every fairytale has a villain. All high quality happy endings involve a black-hearted monster. I just didn't want you to be mine.
You don't deserve my image in your head. You don't deserve my memories in your chest.
When we are in love, we are convinced nobody else will do. But as time goes, others do do, and often do do, much much better.
In my story you're the villain. But in my heart, you're still the reigning King.
Her heart had grown so familiar to the pain of life without him, that to respond now seemed too large a pleasure she could not endure. If pain was love, then she loved fiercely. Yet knew she could not be near that boy again.
He brought out the worst in me, and was the best thing that ever happened to me.
I wore your promise on my finger for one year I'll wear your name on my heart til I die Because you were my boy, you were my only boy forever.
When you miss someone....it's weird. your body doesn't function normally.. as it should. Because I miss you, and my heart "it's not steady" my soul it sings numb. Fingers are cold "like you" your soul.
She wanted to write about something other then love. Yet her freethinking pen seemed more adhered to her heart then to her head. A battle she never felt worth fighting.
I pretended to be an open book, but I was closed off and conceited.
Writing is hard. Not as hard as not writing. Not writing is torturous, bloody, chaotic and a gruesome winless battle. A writer who writes, knows peace, lives connected to truth. Not writing is ache, betrayal, death of the soul and imagination.
He cared less, so they cared more. He said it was beautiful. I knew he was broken.This was his game.
I never want to arrive. I love the ride.
Smile. Your eyes sparkle when you do.
You'll never like me, but you'll always love me.
Life is wonderful when you're the one to write it.
Your psychotic behavior and constant temper tantrums intrigue me.
If you were green tea, I'd be your tea cup. If you were dark chocolate, I'd be the paper that wraps you up. If you were a train, I'd be your tracks If you were a brain, I'd be the heart attached.
Make your choice and make it quick, either build a real heart, or get out of my way QUICK.
It's a finger snapping kind of day.
I pull away, you pull me back, you grab my hand and wrap me around. What you did not know is - my heart is my hand.
Soul mates are muses. The people in your life you despise, disrespect and desire the most.
I'm too tired to fight against you anymore, too tired to say you are wrong. Too tired apologizing, keeping me uping all nighting- criming by wasting my precious timing. Straggling against what I once called charming.