Weekly
Yes, I will most likely drunk text you once a week. That is what you get for pretending you don’t love me.
Yes, I will most likely drunk text you once a week. That is what you get for pretending you don’t love me.
Even after everything that’s happened, for entirely selfish reasons, I want to cuddle you in bed and not say a thing.
It kills me not to hear from you. Your silence is like a black hole. Give me the reason as to why you’ve disappeared.
Whatever it is we’re doing, it hurts more than you can imagine. But I can’t bring myself to stop because I would rather have a small part of you than nothing at all.
I was so free with you. And you were with me. And I don’t think either of us will see those two people again
Let me explain: It’s really hard to love two things when one of them is journalism and the other was you.
I need you to come back, just so I can remember how unhappy you made me, and then when we break up again maybe that time I’ll be fine.
I’m not sad it didn’t work out—I’m angry. Angry with you, angry with the universe. Positively furious.
It sounds corny but I am certain I will always love you. Always.
Just because you never laid a hand on me, doesn’t mean you didn’t leave me bruised and scarred.