Elizabeth Brooks

I have a horrid scar right under my left knee from you. Well, the absence of you. Seems appropriate. But I still miss you. My pillowcase smells like you, so I bury my face in it and breathe it in. Things feel empty. My couch, my living room, my heart. I see pictures of things. Silly things, beautiful things, and I want to share them with you. But alas, I cannot, I do not, I press the red button when you call.

I deleted your number. Although I know the tired digits by heart, scout's honor, pinky promise.I am trying to talk myself out of every emotion I'm having, and of course, it is failing to a fault.I'm still sad, I'm still mad, I'm still heartbroken, I miss you.

Being a blesséd writer is a cursed attribute, when you wish to no longer be encompassed by someone and yet you are surrounded by loose leaf papers filled with the sound of his voice.

Everything is all right,When you__e here,When you__e right next to me,When my hand is in yours,Don__ leave me,Don__ leave me empty handed.

Our hearts will be broken a thousand times over, but who is to say that our hearts were ever perfect to begin with? Maybe they can withstand a few cracks. After all, the way that we love is not perfect. We love things to such an incomprehensible depth that these things become worn in. Wouldn__ the most beautiful thing in the world be a heart that has been through all of the wear and tear, as worn in as your favorite sweater that both keeps you warm and grants you a smile in return? That__ the kind of heart that I want. Bruises make for beautiful colors after all.

Life is terribly awkward and uncomfortable, so we spend our time searching for those who make it all a little less unpleasant.

Honesty is nothing more than a party trick, and you know how much I love to dance.