The guilt fell upon him like a hammer to a nail. He dropped onto his bed, grabbing the picture frame that sat next to it. I’m sorry were the words that repeatedly came out of his mouth. All he could think was, how could he do that to her? To the woman he vowed to spend the rest of his life with. His stomach hurt just from thinking about it.
And the next time I reach for my pen,
it won’t be to write about you again.
The sun will feel warm on my skin once more,
and I will get drunk on the colors of the sky
instead of tasting hangovers dripping from strangers’ lips.
There was no drug strong enough to repair a broken heart.
we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, ” her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!
Because I know if I sit down and start to write out how it feels…. it all becomes too real… the pain becomes too much. But that’s the weird part because I feel so empty, like there no longer is a heart living where there used to be one, so why am I feeling pain?
He said he loved more than any other women he’s ever loved and I had a black eye to prove it.
Love is not for thrill-seekers, dreamers, or children with short attention spans. And you, son, fit into all three of those categories.
Close your eyes, real tight, and then count to three hundred. That’s all you have to do. You just count to three hundred, and when you open your eyes, five minutes will have passed. And even if it hurts or things are shitty or you don’t know what to do, you just made it through five whole minutes. And when it feels like you can’t go on, you just close your eyes and do it again. That’s all you need. Just five minutes at a time.