#asteriea

how to be a ghost in your own skin: watch the one you love slowly forget about you, until you are no more than a distant memory

You have such beautiful eyes— I love the coldness in them.

Love was born on the night before the frost settled over new york city. It was the fog that coated the rosy pink of the sky a hazy, damp blue. whisking away the subtle promise of a spring fling from the more young, impressionable, girls. It was a squealing child, a scar of countless hands that pledged mended hearts to bleeding souls. before landing on dewy grass, crying to the teenage jealousy. and flying off, to start again.

i am clawing at the light. (it learns to bleed quietly.)

pretty is a word that belongs to girls with bright smiles and locks golden like the sun and skin pale like the moon and the universe in their eyes. who could swallow the sun and nobody would even blink. pretty fits in the dimples that curve in the side of her cheek. pretty belongs to the magic of midday, a warm hand curling around your wrist and a fluttering pulse.