𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕭𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖑𝖑𝖊

"When my head hit my cheap pillow, I could tell I had a heart. I want to rip this fascist milky way apart.
          
          'Cause someone loved me. Someone fucking loved me. Someone fucking loved me and I loved them too."

"I know it can't be pleasant to deal with me today."

"If she turns around fast enough there's a chance she'll catch me staring. I was afraid of you for this very reason, for being so ahead of something so inexistent. It's alright though, you're a wild daisy and I'm odd as a bryphotite. Everything you do is romantic, it's my turn to be terrifying."

"...two-hundred and seventy freckles. At least the visible ones."

You're not tearing me down, not in the slightest. Yet why did my anger rear its ugly head out after? Stepping out because it's too much, being cradled in somebody's arms. Violence is an immediate answer no matter who I direct it to. I've only ever shown you how much I love you, and refuse to show you how much I hate you. It's a lot more than what I adore you, so that's a hint.