““Why did you start writing?” What else is there to do when you’re fifteen and trying to keep your fingers pinned to your sides because if you don’t control your shaky hands they will grab at razorblades? I started filling in the blanks you left between little blue lines pressed against empty white spaces. You were supposed to be in bed next to me when my dreams faded into bright lights and that kind of tired that fills your whole body and spills over onto the blanket, but you weren’t this morning, so I re-wrote waking up and made sure you were there with your tired eyes and sleepy voice, saying sweeter things in my head from the tip of my pen than you ever would’ve said if you had really been there next to me. I crossed out your goodbye with black ink and changed the story in an old notebook to make it burn less. You’re still here on paper, I guess.”
—
It wasn’t art it was psychotic (via
extrasad
