Everything I am, everything I've done to myself — I did. Not him. Not Richie. I kissed those pages in red, not for him, but for me. Because red is mine. Because pain, too, is mine.
“Even the prettiest gifts can carry the sharpest truths inside.”
I wore my heartbreak like perfume, let it drip off gold earrings and stain lace collars. When I said I loved him, I meant I loved the idea of being destroyed beautifully.
This is not just a diary. This is a velvet coffin with poems carved into the wood. Welcome to my mind~