She told me she hates alcohol as she took another shot but it burned less than all of the unsaid words rotting in her throat.

She told me she hates being alone but she never is anyway because her nightmares are always screaming and her dreams are always running.

She told me she breaks her bones for an image she will never see and she unzips her skin for people who never love her.

She told me she writes love letters to herself and she never receives them because they always get lost in the mail of her mind.

She told me her veins have bled from all of the ink she has used to draw paradise on her cracked bedroom walls.

She told me her fingers ache from all the times she has had to stitch her unraveled heart back together.

I told her I hate alcohol too but we both said cheers as we tapped our glasses together and let the rotting words in our throats wash down.

She was anΒ enigma.Β  (via dollpoetry)