"𝑰'𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝑽𝒊𝒂."
Octavia slowly crosses over worlds with Hardin. They were two different people, but he had a bigger secret than imaginable... 𝙄 𝙜𝙪𝙚𝙨𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙡𝙡 𝙝𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙠�...
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EVERGREEN
⇩ "Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart." — Washington Irving.
TW ────"🗞️ mentions of self harm
I don't remember much of what happened last night, I don't even want to remember. I do remember confessing my feelings for Nolan and I will never make a mistake like that again.
Before I even try to remember I have a couple Words that could speak for myself.
I love poetry. Writing makes me feel better. It's the only thing keeping me going. Any thought or Something I want to forget I leave it all on a small piece of paper.
I've never really told anyone, but I just thought it would've been silly.
Some of my best work I kept on my walls, I always thought they would look better there as a reminder of my lowest times. Having a mask over my poetry never lets anyone know my real identity.
'📜' An ocean of words build by my own silence and im drowning in it. Bones getting heavier by the second, minutes. I feel the pressure in my chest as I sink deeper. The darkness slowly surrounding me feels almost like home, my voice surrendered weeks ago, as if it is it was never there at alll. The need to cry or scream is gone. There was a time where surviving meant something, before the sadness started to be comfortable and almost warm. Before the bodies of the dead versions of me started to to form the walls of silence now reborn. But I have accepted my place in this sunken city. It's like im searching for gold that's buried beneath. A ghost town of ships wrecks that never made it to their final destination, just like myself. Dancing with the skeletons on the ocean floor. who knew salt water can taste so sweet, but none of this matters anymore. I forgot how to breath anyway.
As I wrote the last word on my page my brother barged in my room.
"Hey V." He sat in my bed.
I slam my journal shut and hold it.
"Not going to read it." He put his hands up defensively.
"Just want to conversate." He assured.
He looks around my walls around the poetry before saying anything.
"You made these?" He asked.
"No a talented writer did, they don't say their identity. Emerson, they go by." I admitted.
