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10 things I’ll never forget about her
1.) She handed me back my sweater she’d borrowed after running through the rain in science that day. I’d put it to my nose and let the soft string of her perfume and shampoo cradle my nose. She was home to me.
2. Her forefinger and thumb pulled at the hem of her hoodie, begging it to cover her knuckles. And her wrists.
3. Walking to her apartments in the middle of the night was a dream as I saw the white milky smoke cloud around her face. We only did this outside after the fluorescent orange lamposts invaded the dark.
4. I remember the frantic texts that made my phone seize in a frenzy of notifications. ‘I took the pills’ was all I saw as I stared at the small pixilated screen.
5. I only received a few messages from her the rest of the next two weeks as she was transported through the city to seek help that would only fix her wounds and staple her with labels.
6. Reckless was her middle name and her virtue. Thinking before acting was just a way of slowing her down. She was fast and radiant like the wind. She felt invisible like it, too.
7. “Home is where you lay your head” was tattooed on the front of her thigh. I began to realize how true this must have had to be for her. Her father not around and her mother gone before she woke up and home after she fell asleep. Sleepovers with scary girls and dates with boys who could buy cigarettes. Home was wherever she could close her tired eyes.
8. Her handwriting was light and small like her and she wrote constantly all over her hands staining her palms with the word ‘dead’ in smudgey permanent ink.
9. She always carried a grey back pack and a 99 cent lighter everywhere she went. An Altoid box with mints and an Altoid box she’d kept to carrry weapons to wage war on her skin.
10. Her eyes turned pink like rabbits when she cried and when she smiled she covered her teeth with her top lip to hide the familiar insecurity that was her teeth. All her flaws were just added details to the architecture. She was a work of art.

L.D.C. 7/23/14 1:49 a.m.

Katie; wind & smoke. (via blith-ed)

omf I love you, your writing is perfect thank you!!! much love

So, dear, no matter how we part, I hold you sweetly in my head.
And if I do not miss a part of you, a part of me is dead.
If I can’t love you as a lover, I will love you as a friend.
— La Dispute, “Andria” (via poeticpluviophile)
The worst part about anything that’s self destructive is that it’s so intimate. You become so close with your addictions and illnesses that leaving them behind is like killing the part of yourself that taught you how to survive.
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I try more and more to be myself, caring relatively little whether people approve or disapprove.
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Everything passes. Everything changes. Just do what you think you should do.
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