I hate the way I love how your name tastes like poison but I can't help but whisper it.
You're a beautiful tragedy.
YOU ARE READING
Insomniac
Short StoryTo the ones up because of the late nights when the sleep keeps its distance and the memories roll in like waves. We are the insomniacs.
eighteen.
I hate the way I love how your name tastes like poison but I can't help but whisper it.
You're a beautiful tragedy.
