welcome to my little world.

sincesheleft:

(photo via hipcumon)

I’m not kidding around when at times I thought she would kill me. There were a couple of reasons for this.

For one she was a Criminology major, she could probably kill me and leave no forensic evidence. She also had money (and a trust fund), and she had two fucking middle names and her first name was Dorothy, I’m not making this up. She was taller than me, but only just by a little.

She had a boyfriend who was kinda a roughneck, and I thought he might kill me too.

The woman was an alcoholic in recovery, an x-coke addict and her entire body aside from her head was hairless, all of the time.

Once when we were fucking she told me to choke her, and I was afraid that if I didn’t she’d be pissed. Sometimes, even as a man, when you’re told to do something, you do it. Even if it’s out of fear.

(via hipcumon)

sincesheleft:

We moved into that 2nd story apartment, the one with the heater under the window that looked out into the parking lot. That tiny one bedroom with the gas stove, and the creaky kitchen floor, the cracked linoleum, and the bathroom sink that wouldn’t stop dripping.

All the shit that we couldn’t fit into that apartment we stuck into the garage of a friend of a friend of ours. We didn’t have much. My books lined the walls and we sat on the floor most of the time.

Things We Brought With Us That We Shouldn’t Have

·      Two futons

·      A dismantled drumset

·      That awesome collection of empty liquor bottles

·      My coke habit

·      A bicycle that she never rode

Things I Constantly Bitched About But Shouldn’t Have

·      Her coke habit

·      You tell me first

·      She never ate breakfast

·      That fucking bear

Actually, the bear was the only sane thing in our relationship, and I know that sounds crazy. It was the only innocent thing in our relationship, and the only thing that was acquired in our relationship with any sort of honesty. I worked this shitty bookstore job for a few weeks and with my first paycheck I got her that bear after we’d been dating for a month.

Sometimes the things that we complain about in the relationship are the things that we miss the most after that person is gone.

sincesheleft:

(via enjoywontyou)

Santo & Johnny - Sleepwalk 

(via rottinghaus)

sincesheleft:

Even just a month ago on a Saturday it wasn’t this hot. We didn’t hate every moment spent outside. Even standing in front of the open refrigerator allowing that cool air to spill out onto our bodies isn’t enough to make us feel  any better. Enough truly is enough. In two weeks time, I’m moving north, where the summers are half as long and slightly less hot. To a place where leaves will turn brown and fall from branches, to be swept up from sidewalks and replaced by water that’s been temporarily frozen. Things that I’ve never myself seen. It will be glorious.

This heat will fuck with your head, it’ll make you do things that you wouldn’t ordinarily do, or at least, do shit that you wouldn’t ordinarily do but you’ve blamed it on the heat. It take the piss out of everything. I’m moving to civilization. I’m going to the city. 

(img)

sincesheleft:

You either jump off that platform or climb back down that ladder awkwardly. 

Both routes will get you to the ground, eventually. But they both won’t get you the girl.

It’s up to you.

(img via bbook)

sincesheleft:

I mean, yeah. One day you’ll swing by to take her out and she’ll answer the door with a literal, but more often than not, figurative hat on, that just looks ridiculous and you’ll stand there, at the door to her apartment as she walks outside, and you think to yourself, “What in the hell did I just get myself into?” Anyways, she’ll walk out and she’s all smiles and like asking if you want Thai or Mexican, but you’ve just now noticed the star on her head, and maybe by now you’re mouth breathing, staring at her. She looks you up and down and she smiles. Her hand moves and finds your hand and those fingers interlock with your fingers and she gives your hand that little half squeeze. It dawns on you that this is who she is. This is what you’ve signed up for, and dude, she’s rocking that look. She’s making it work. Would you love her if she was anyone else? Probably not, so just roll with it. Realize that you’ve never had it better than you do right now, that this is your la montagne sacrée, and it’s fucking rad. 

sincesheleft:

When I finish the cigarette I’m done. She’s left and I need to let go. 

I flick open the lighter, a gift from the last girl that tried to fill the spot she left so brilliantly and obviously open in my life. I stare at the flame as it dances with the wind, so connected to every slight breath uttered by it’s partner. A gust hits and the flame expires, so I relight it and bring it to my face, cupping my hands around it to protect it from her partner. 

Breathe deep; that first breath fills my lungs with the beautiful poison, like her, a slow killer that I love. 

“Not everything’s a metaphor,” she once quoted to me, “some things just are.” But I can’t help it, everything I see connects to her; the ash that falls to the ground like the beautiful and the painful memories, to be swept away into some invisible form and ultimately forgotten. The smoke will leave scars on my lungs, the details of each interaction will fade. But it, like the scars she left, will remain. 

The paper slowly burns, until there is nothing left of the Eagle emblazoned on the side. I know I have only moments left. I try to slow time, I grab every second, holding on to it for all I am, and have ever been, worth. But there is no fighting it, every bit of relief I get from each inhalation causes time to shrink. Every time I see her, I know it’s one step closer to her never being there again.

Only the smallest bit remains, each breath burns my lips as the smoke passes through the filter. Oh please don’t let this end. I must go on, but don’t let it end. My fingers feel the heat of the smoldering ash at the end of my cigarette, but still they cling on, willing the facts not to be true. But they are, and holding on only hurts more. 

I let it drop.

The ash scars the pavement where it landed, a obvious mark, one that will stand out for a while but, in the end, will wash away with the storm and the wind brewing overhead. I step on it, finally extinguishing it. 

It’s done. Gone. 

I walk away.

Since She Left thanks themattscott for his contribution. 

happpiest time of the year :)

(via sincesheleft)

sincesheleft:

Submitted by peoplewitheachother.