That Street

Sangria sighs

And long train station goodbyes

Extra large French fries

                                               Between two;

Haunted by the hungry ghost

                                               Of you

                                                           With your

                                                           Artificially red velvet head

                                                           Making art out of our messy bed;

Longing, longing

For that something instead

                                               I thought

                                               -I guessed-

                                               -I supposed-

                                                                                                                       You were dead.

But you were walking around

Tethered to the unholy ground

Making such a silent sound

                                       -dancing around with broken and bleeding feet

                                       -I saw your face in passing down one dead-end street;

                       I thought about what I’d say to you if we’d meet

                       -thought about what we might eat

                       -about how you were once so deliciously sweet

I’m sorry I can’t go back down that street…

-S.W.

Gaiman, Neil. The Sandman. (via hcathledger)

(Source: wordsnquotes, via imlosingfaithingravity)

I think hell is something you carry around with you. Not somewhere you go.

Drunk ramblings at 1 a.m., March 1st, 2016 (via charmingcharlene)

(via frankeatsweenies)

Sangria stains
and period pains,

This is my Monday night.

Divine wine on my lips
tight leggings on my hips

This is my life,
(A lie.)

I am smiling,
I am crying,
I am living,
I am dying.

I’m a trainwreck,
the best kind of mess.

I once fucked a boy
for alcohol,
but he got me shitty $6 lower shelf vodka
and it made me puke my lungs out
till I saw the shell of myself I’d become.

Karma’s a bitch.

But I’m beautiful and kind,
and I once tore myself in half
for a boy who couldn’t remember my birthday.

Then I horribly hurt a boy
who couldn’t stop singing my name.

This is my shame.

This is my catharsis,
This is my rebirth.
This is the first step
(and relapse)
to the life I want
and the person
I want to be.

Which is free.
Which is me.