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eleven oak treesits funny, the things you remember when someone is taken away from you.
you hold everything you loved and you try so hard to stop it slipping through your fingers but it eventually does, and all that is left are the snippets the snapshots of all your memories horrid and lovely, compiled like a montage
it is three am, wednesday morning, and i'm standing, watching my mother, half sitting, half lying, sprawled out with her arms above her head in the darkened hall way, my father towering over her. I don't really remember what he looks like. He was tall, with dark hair and deep set eyes, shrouded by thick eyelashes and adorned by the beginning of crow's feet. he had a crooked smile that i used to love, with slightly yellowing teeth and dark stubble that grew from his jawline and made me laugh when he would kiss me goodnight. i remember her distorted, screaming face and my learned helplessness as tears graced my smooth, seven year old cheeks.
a year earlier, i remember s
she was once a girl,-
it's the silence at the very bottom of the night, and the way i passed out smiling, knowing that you were coming soon. it's the way i woke up in hospital with your hands on my arms, and your eyes more bloodshot than mine. it's the pain i saw in you, and the way my whole world ended in that moment.
this world is everything but beautiful. beauty is in the ability to smile when you know crying would be easiest, and holding others hearts closer than your own. it's doing the best by everyone else, even if it means doing the worst by yourself.
you're the only beautiful person i've ever met.
you were my first love, and darling, you'll be the last.
i'm not realwe invented screamers out of passed out lovers and complex therapists who claim
schizophrenia is simply due to loneliness, and not even fossil fuels can fuel the hatred
i have buried deep within my hollowed out bones and the corners and streets
of my soul
i wish i could build my relationships out of bricks and paste together problems
and urge myself to have some worth in war stricken convulsions of a world so
lost in something so ugly that being jesus is an art and being god is a talent
and i may be an artist yet i am so lost i couldn't even
count down to ten and across the milky way and breathe in and out and i wish
you would thank me for existing or for trying to live or for being me
instead i am broken holy nothings and blood without a pump
and lungs without oxygen and a soul without a purpose
instead i lost my meaning on thirty fifth street and ditched
my independence behind the back door where i was beaten
and slain and ate moths for three square meals a day
parents produce manipu