It's August and I've been trying to be honest by lacing little truths in between paragraphs of events that only take place in my head, forcing the ink to turn into words as the pen is poised in my hand. There is someone out there I told myself I wouldn't write about but damn it, he's all that comes out. Can my words atone for the damage that I've done? Love is love is love but love is also Some Thing that we've twisted and dangled around so much, dragged around in the mud and trampled with our feet that I'm not quite sure what it means to me.
Last night my grandmother burst into tears after seeing me for the first time two months after having her stroke, and all I could do was hold both of her hands tightly, try to memorize the feel of the looseness of her freckled flesh, and keep saying, "I love you, I love you. I'm sorry I didn't call." We have taken so many things for granted and we still continue to. The heavy downpour of rain synchronized with the tears on my face.
Seventeen and studying Psychology. I like books, coffee, lyricism, magic hour, (in)signifcant moments, free-verse poetry, mental disorders, female anatomy, pretty smiles, late night conversations, and the time it takes for two people to transcend the boundary between strangers and friends.
I keep sadness at bay by constantly falling in love with the little things in life. My name is Anna and this is where I try to write.
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