“I think about dying but I dont want to die. Not even close. In fact my problem is the complete opposite. I want to live, I want to escape. I feel trapped and bored and claustrophobic. There’s so much to see and so much to do but I somehow still find myself doing nothing at all. I’m still here in this metaphorical bubble of existence and I can’t quite figure out what the hell I’m doing or how to get out of it.”—Matty Healy (via seltsames)
three years later, a new girl sits cross-legged on your bed. she tastes like a different flavor of bubblegum than you are used to. she opens up a book that you had to read in high school, and a folded picture of us falls out of chapter three. now there are two unfinished stories resting in her lap. inevitably, she asks, and you tell her.
you say: i dated her a while back.
you don’t say: sometimes, when i’m holding you, i imagine the smell of her vanilla perfume.
you say: she was younger than me.
you don’t say: the sixteen summers in her bones warmed the eighteen winters my skin had weathered.
you say: it’s nothing now.
you don’t say: but it was everything then.