There’s so much inspiration here.
In your eyes, in your breath, in your voice, in your bones. You’re my bored little muse who folds her arms while she watches cooking shows, and I’m your little cynical writer who is head-over-heels in love with you.
The things I could tell you, love. The dreams I have for you, for us. What we could do when we escape from this infinite boredom, this hell. I know we make the best of it, and I know you try your best, but God damn is it boring here. I know you want to leave and I do too and one day I will carry you out like a soldier leaving war but for now we have to stay in bed.
Isn’t it strange how you can find beauty wherever you look? The way your hips meet your legs, the curvature of your neck. It’s beautiful, you’re beautiful. I’ve seen you smile once or twice. I know how beautiful it is. Just like the rest of you. Your whole body and spirit seems to take after your smile, filling every part of the room with a strange warmth.
But I’ve also seen you flatten out, every emotion from your body draining from that damned bottle. I see you flinch when you swallow the little monster, killing every feeling you have and replacing it with a cold, quiet acceptance. Is that what you want? Yeah, sometimes it feels nice to give up and I suppose that’s why we’re here, but those pills will kill every emotion you have. I’d rather replace them with a kiss.
