I’ve been lied, hurt, stabbed, killed, my wings ripped, my heart’s been broken so many times.
I am a hollow. But I’m still living and shit. I revived and grew stronger from my ashes. Every fucking time.
I forgive, I kick ass, I cry, I dance, I touch, I kiss, I love, I yell back, I listen.
My Bipolar doesn’t define who I am.
I love the smell of the rain and paper from a brand new book, kind-hearted people, the colors of sunset, the feelings when my fingers stroke someone’s hair, untidy bed, deep husky voice from a guy who just woke up and call me in the morning, that beautiful sound made by acoustic guitar strings, deep conversations with a beautiful mind, the first three seconds when my feet step on a cold floor, a cup of coffee with creamer, the sensation when I engrave my drawing pen onto surface of a paper, bitterness from the beer I drink, holding hands, a dog’s sincere smile (and its waving tail!), walking alone with my earphones on – and the freedom to sing it loud, friends who listens to my favorite songs, faded pictures, dancing wildly in my bra and panties alone in my room after a very stressful day at work, that hint of sweetness from a baby’s scent, cigarette-tasted lips.
I write not to impress you.
Reach me here.
Ask anything here.