She loved him, in a twisted way; the way a soldier felt towards his weapon, disgusted and bitter and fond, all at the same time. She didn’t want to love him, didn’t want to look in his eyes and feel her gut clench, feel her blood light on fire - even as he turned away.

She loved him, because she had to - because no matter how much she said ‘I will move on’ she somehow got sidetracked, got distracted, and forgot to.

And no, this wasn’t right, was it? It couldn’t be. There were small moments of happiness, just a moment, just a couple of seconds of wow I could get used to this, but it never felt this good. And he knew it couldn’t be right, because things never went right for him. And that was just the way it was.

“Get over here.” The grumble came through the wall. “Before I have to get out of bed, and, let me tell you, I don’t care if you’re deliciously good-looking, I am not becoming a morning person for you.”

He smiled at the wall. And then hit himself on the forehead, because oh my god, he was smitten, this was embarrassing. And then he went back to bed.

And that’s the way it is, that’s the way it always is, isn’t it; all forced smiles that are too tight around the edges and eyes lined with shadows and hands that don’t grab but grapple, and this is his life, this is life. He remembers that he must have been hopeful once, must have woken up and thought, I have a chance. I do, I do, I do - but.

But now he’s just slow, lethargic; he feels every word sink into his bones, every cut and bruise disappear into his blood, into somewhere it can never return from, the depths of his mind that he reserves for Do Not Remember This and there it is, isn’t it, the truth, veiled but not quite enough, uncovered by the slightest, gentlest of touches. It’s the way it’s always been and it will always be this way, won’t it; he knew it when he was child and he knows it now, as he stares at his best friend - and, and lover? Oh god not lover he hates that word, hates it, the sentiment is nice but he’s never been one for sentiment anyway - walk away.

Because that’s the way it is, isn’t it, it’s the way it always has been; push and pull and push and pull until one of you gives up, and everybody always gives up on him and he’ll be damned if he hasn’t, too.

“Maybe there’s no such thing as happy-ever-after,” she pointed out. Of course she didn’t want to believe it, not really. She wanted to believe in the Disney movies, with the pretty girls and the handsome princes and the fade-out that blurred into Happily Ever After.

But sometimes, she just couldn’t believe in that. Because where was hers?

“Or maybe there is,” he pointed out, “and you just haven’t found the right person yet.”

She sighed. “Yeah. I guess. I just wish the right person would hurry up and come along, y’know?”

“Maybe he’s already here,” he said, a little pointedly. He trained his eyes on her, gauging her reaction.

She just laughed, not even looking at him. “Yeah,” she said. “Right.”

You are my
favourite book, the one
I always keep next to my
bed instead of on the
bookshelf with the others.
Your pages are worn and ripped
and dog-eared and old, but still
I read you over and over
again, discovering new things each
time I read you
and never getting bored no matter
how many times I
run my eyes over the neat words,
written over your skin in a marker only
visible to me.

big-facade-to-hide:

Worthless. 

Shitty.

The worst. 

(Source: only-by-night)

“See,” she says, and her eyes light up with something, just something, and her mouth tilts up and he can’t help but feel that he’s being mocked. “That’s exactly it. You love me, right?”

“Of course - “

“But you don’t,” she cuts him off. She’s not mocking him anymore. She just looks sad. “You love me for the person I am when I’m around other people. You love me for the happy girl who watches all your favourite movies and laughs at all your shitty jokes. You don’t love me for the girl who cries herself to sleep at night. You don’t love me for the person I really am.” Seeing the startled look he throws her, she sighs. “It’s okay. I understand. It’s not your fault.”

“It is,” he says.

She doesn’t say anything. He takes that as agreement.

every word
I ever said to you
plays over
and over
like a record stuck on
repeat

every word you ever
said to me is
written on my skin, on my
lips, like a poem
I can’t repeat

I’ve never been brave. Stupid, yeah, but never brave. I could throw myself out of a plane for the adrenaline, but I can’t stand up in front of a hundred people and read a short speech. I can cut off all my hair and people will raise their eyebrows and say, ‘It looks good on you. But that’s brave’, but it’s not. Brave is risking what you have (what small, small amount of security you have). Brave is standing up for what you believe in or running after somebody because you just can’t let them go, not this time, not again. Brave is sleeping in the dark when you’re terrified of running out of light. Brave is taking a deep breath on a crowded train and sitting here and not freaking the fuck out. Brave is looking your lover, your enemy, in the eye and going, ‘I can’t take this abuse anymore.’ Brave isn’t just an adrenaline rush, or a radical choice of action. Bravery is in the little things. To be brave is to do what you believe, because you believe in it.

She doesn’t recognise the feeling at first. It crawls up her throat, mixing with her breath and disappearing back into her lungs. Breathe. It’s black, and grey, and her hands sting and her face is so cold she feels like it may have developed icicles and this is it, this is it, isn’t it.

Breathe.

She doesn’t recognise the feeling.

Until suddenly, she does.

It’s black, and grey, and her hands sting and her face is cold and her stomach clenches and her eyelids flutter and there’s silhouettes, red and white and blaring noises, high-pitched and screeching and merciless and -

Breathe.

Suddenly, she does.