He picked up a large white vase and pitched it.
Sharp porcelain lined the shapeless pool of liquid formed by its contents.
Of the man that pulled at my feathers.

The artist, the true manifestation of struggle.
The shattered porcelain greeted back with fresh wounds.
Memories. Two beasts, naked.

I just come to realize that we’re only here briefly. And while I’m here, I wanna alow myself joy. So fuck it.


When you make it to your driveway, 
Will you call to let me know that you’re ok?
And when you make it to your bedroom, 
Do you collapse on your bed right away?
Or do you lay and think about how fucking lonely you’ve become?

(via fuckristyn)