there’s still a little bit of me.
that isn’t even me. it’s you.
'residue' by Della Hicks-Wilson
When He Stops Saying “I Love You Too”

writingsforwinter:

Don’t lose pieces of yourself inside his mosaic.

If there is shattering, then there will always be a rebuild.

Worship the moon instead of his favorite song

and the next time you hear it, don’t sing along.

Never walk the three miles to his house

even after all the gin is gone

and your friends have taken away the keys.

Your time with him is out.

Stop pretending you can still hear the clock ticking.

Trace the equator on an atlas

instead of all the tattoos you remember from his spine

so you’ll finally have a place you’ll be able to end up at.

This was just a typo in your life story.

You’ll know how to proofread it better next time.

Until then, even if it takes a forklift,

sit yourself up from the floor

and let your heart go door to door

until it finally finds what it’s looking for.


Drunk text me. Text me when the music is loud and there are girls dancing around you and you’re not quite coherent and you’re not quite yourself. Drunk text me that you love me or that you miss me or that I’m on your mind. Let the alcohol tell me all the things you won’t say sober.
― (via laurenrosenicole)

chilled:

*throws lamp at you* you need to lighten the fuck up