𝙠𝙝𝙪𝙨𝙝 𝙗𝙖𝙠𝙝𝙩

It was April and she was the saddest thing under the sun.

“i used to write” is such a sad, sloppy, slow thing to say and i say it with the hesitation of a child stopped midplay. “why did you stop?” and i wish i can come up with a better reply than merely explaining how the horrors of day to day life got to my head or the unexplainable exhaustion that has found a home right in the centre of my bones but the only thing my smartass can say is “just”. they nod their head in a yes as if they understand but how can anyone truly does because its like taking away one’s heart and then asking them to breathe. like a fish out of water, gasping for an inhale or a rush of relief. 

things my mother might've forgotten to teach me, but i've learned anyway:

what do you need that you're always looking for in other languages?

It's November and I feel my life to be on the brink of change.