Something blue, something borrowed.
She was stubborn. She was weak; held prisoner to emotional defeat. Failure is a difficult guarantee, but even worse when you’re failing on purpose just to induce pain within. I wonder if we build a tolerance with each hardship experienced, so that life feels as if it’s incomplete if not epic. I feel that way sometimes. Sovereign or static with no in between.
Complexed with blue holes in my heart, thanks to the holes in my head. Stab wounds in my back lend borrowed pain to my chest. A new start igniting passion I forgot about in bins filled with Christmas lights and cob webs. A future where you run into an old friend you never thought you’d see this way again.