The Sweet Life.

It’s ironic because I left you so that you couldn’t leave me, but that hurt me more than it hurt you.

I like to pretend I’m not covered in thorns. I like to pretend That if I wanted to, I could be weak with you. Sometimes, I almost am. But there’s a ghost inside of my head, Quick to remind me That I can’t make homes out of people. That ribcages are born with hearts already inside them, And you can’t unlock the bones to switch them out. But I like to think it’d be good for me, That I could try petals and leaves for once, That you could touch me without cuts all over your hands. I can’t tear out my thorns But I’d like to think I’d be better if I could.

Book of the day: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman