I am assembled from the things we’ve left behind. The pieces of your personality that you lost when you grew up fell back into my arms. The tendencies you murdered to better or worsen yourself drifted and clung to me like butterflies. The old trends and interests you gradually forgot, came to me in search of a home. I am patchwork, a quilt from the leftover scraps of life of others, and I can keep you warm.@9 months ago
This old room smells of that detestable love, regretful fondness.
This old house reeks of her sickly scent, is bloated with her tortured thoughts.
And whether she travels across the country, or no further than her own private hell, she will never leave this creaky mattress. She remains trapped with her head out the window and her feet firmly planted in her least favorite place.
She continues trying to discern which way out will allow her to keep most of herself, which way out will cause the least damage. That terrible lonely feeling in your gut is home to her, and that disgusting sadness in your eyes is pure comfort.
In the beginning, her hands shook from fear of the dangers, but they continue to shake to her last day, for fear of all that is behind her.