My mum asked me for a list of ideas for presents for Christmas and my birthday and I basically just printed out my Book Depository wishlist
She said “but they’re all books, there must be something else that you want?” I don’t think she understands what it’s like to be a book addict— I mean book collector…
Like a car crash, or a train wreck.
It hit so suddenly. And left tragically,
and left only tragedy.
It was a hard slap to the face.
It was a hard slap to face.
The sting it left lingered like the
smell of tobacco after you smoked
a whole pack, or two.
It remained like a coffee stain on your
shirt, like ink on paper, paint on walls,
scars on your skin.
There was an aftershock.
Like ones after an earthquake.
The realization came as a surprise.
But the kind of surprises on your birthday
where you find that your fish has died
instead of a party.
Everything becomes too real.
And you see that everything is so fake.
People, places, feelings,
me immediately after talking about any personal information or emotions: ive revealed too much. i must never speak again, to show no weakness and preserve my identity
"Sometimes I feel like I’m not solid. I’m hollow. There’s nothing behind my eyes. I’m a negative of a person. All I want is blackness, blackness and silence."
