She’s not the kind of girl you choose your battles for. She’s the kind of girl you fight to the death for.

Why can’t sheer
beauty kill this century
the way it kills me?

I want to love you.
I hope you’ll let me.
Because my hands are just as stained, if not more, cause I let your hand go.
And I don’t know how to hold myself up without you being there to catch me when I fall.

You tried to love me.
I tried to let you.
But my hands are stained with blood and yours are pure as snow.
And I don’t know how to hold on without staining you too.

Without you, I lost myself too.

love is a kind of violence. it is a knife, buried deep into my chest. it is my neck, bared open for you to slit.

eyes of ice
words of steel
but underneath
her heart was broken

But you are never stationary. This is the myth that they tell you: they say you must keep moving, keep improving, that you must have a life goal, an end goal. But they forget to remind you to stop and breathe the air every once in a while - to tell you that it’s good for your lungs, to tell you that growing old without smelling the flowers is a terrible way to grow. Because, the thing is, sometimes you will trip and sometimes your feet won’t listen to your eyes but you are always moving and you are doing better than you think.

I am two fools, I know,
For loving and for saying so