I am not a book, my title is not tattooed along my spine;

My life is not broken into easy increments like chapters. It does not flow. I cannot be studied line by line, and my thoughts, themes, ideas, and beliefs cannot be so easily dissected.

But I am like a book, my skin is thin as paper. Ink, not blood, pumps my heart. Open my skull, memories are written in small type, along the fractures.

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I’m shaking from anger. 1 note

I miss that too, dear.

Meh, thanks.

Urges.

Unfortunately, not the good kind.

It’s amazing how I can still find some humor in this situation.

1 note