Rarely Short, Always Truthful, Forever Yours

(via keep-that-pussy-wet)

F. Scott Fitzgerald (via sighes)

J.D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

I’m trying so hard to be my best. But it’s every little thing. The smell lingering on my hands from everything I touch. My last cigarette. The toothpaste dried to the bottom of the sink. Our clothes piled so high on the floor who don’t know which jeans are which. The small scabs we can’t leave alone. The dust and dirt stained black to the bottom of my feet. It’s not like history it’s like fairy tales. Pieces of your hair tangled around my fingers. Little reminders for the day. The clicking of that ceiling fan in your childhood bedroom. Almost like the clicking of your keyboard. Leaving messages on the inside of a foggy car window like hieroglyphics. Dead flowers drowning in vases of moldy water on some lonely coffee table. There are coffee ring stains that remind me of all my wasted mornings. Washing your hands without touching the cold porcelain of the sink. Almost like walking through a party or a familiar bar without someone stopping to ask how you are. You’re fine. You don’t need check ups. No one will be your doctor today. No one will take your temperature and prescribe you pills and a shot for that bruised heart. One so bent it’s beyond breaking. Like an aluminum can flattened by a car. A sad sight for sore eyes. A sore heart for sad eyes. You’re so backwards that you might be heading in the right direction.