a fairy living in monet’s garden

it’s so painful to watch yourself grow cold, bitter, and resentful, even toward small, irrelevant things, when all you’ve ever wanted was just to be warm, gentle, kind, and loving.

january always feels like a distant memory. idk why. but now that i think about it, it feels like i am living in the past and it feels weird.

the flowers continue to wither. i hope time would stop

It’s ironic how feeling can make you feel like you’re dying, yet it’s also the very sign that you’re alive.

I looked at our picture, and I can’t help but think that you’re with someone else — it just happens to be my face and body.

what flowed from my eyes merged with the rosewater gliding under gentle hands across my face as I cared for my skin.

to not fear is to never be.

how unfathomably aching it is to have only learned a certain depth of love, so you constantly seek even the smallest breadcrumbs. your system has grown familiar with the kind of love that makes you chase, because to you, the smallest thing feels like the biggest thing. and when it comes to choosing, you end up coming back to the previous guy who won’t do a thing for you over choosing the new one who makes you feel safe, does everything, and simply lets you be — because you find pain easier to receive, understand, and is more familiar to you than safety and warmth.

no matter where you are, this is a sign to reclaim your presence.

an enraged fairy gasps for air as blood flows from the slit across her chest—hoping the willow tree, beneath which she sits, will embrace her with its sorrowful yet gentle cries, enclosing the self-inflicted wound with its tender, weeping branches

I hope there will be a day where I wake up without feeling heavy—just fully rested.

i hope you see me again.

I wish I could take photos with my eyes.

they say, “to live is to grieve”—but, why does it feel like dying?

i’m still grieving about the part of me that i lost when you left me