Her soul was dark and cold, every time she laid her pretty little fingers on something it messed up, whether if it was spilling coffee on library books or kissing the man she loved goodbye, permanently. Her legs were always banged and bruised from falling up and down staircases, she was too clumsy, she had dresses but never wore the because of it. Her arms had scars on them, from the past, always reminding her what happened. Most the time she cried more than smiled, and she remembered the bad more than the good. Very few friends were in her life, some she said hello to every month, and one she talked to daily. Everything was beautiful to her, the freckle on your noise, the dark circles under his eyes. Everything except herself. She was alone, broken, worried.
But let me tell you, despite her dull winter evenings on summer nights, her silent cries before sleep, her angry behavior when she messed up, she was something else. She was made to be perfectly imperfect, it was all in the way she walked, the way she talked. How she stumbled over her words but made them flow from her pen. The way her heart was the only warmth in her body, bigger than her being. The way her sad eyes got a little happier during Christmas time. The way she held secrets and mysteries in her head, despite the thoughts of wishing she was dead. She is beautiful, unique. She’s my 2 am crying phone call, my spilled ink on the pages, my winter loving summer hating, my tea drinker, my sad but happy, my girl. She’s my girl.
, i like to imagine how he feels about me.
I’ve always loved the idea of not being what people expect me to be.
Dita Von Teese (via suspend
(Source: dita-van-teese, via metr0link)