Bukowski, speaking truth.

“I won’t blame you, 
instead I will remember the kisses our lips raw with love and how you gave me everything you had and how I offered you what was left of me, and I will remember your small room the feel of you the light in the window your records your books our morning coffee our noons our nights our bodies spilled together sleeping the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever your leg my leg your arm my arm your smile and the warmth of you who made me laugh again.”

—	Raw with love by Charles Bukowski

Hope

Sometimes I feel like I'm living in a modern day fairy tale. Not to say that my life is beautiful and happy and romantic. Honestly, more often than not, my life is entirely fucked up.
I think the fairy tale part of it is that no matter what, even though I can usually be found cleaning up the shards of my broken life, I still manage to find something to love.
Some hope shines through my window along with the ever lonely, entirely uncomplicated, beautiful blue light of dawn.

its all based in moments.

"History tends to repeat itself, but now that I'm not a drunk it's a little bit difficult."
My sober ramblings may be more nonsensical than my drunken ones.
Panties and tights tangled, swollen heart, swollen ankle, [Heels to Jesus].
"What would you like your name to be?"

Who?

A writer who doesn’t write. 
Who never wanted to fall back in love with that one who hurt her so badly. 
Who breathes in wine and breathes out cigarette smoke. 
Who broke hearts once upon a time. 
Who forgets to breathe when she reads your words.