pink bedroom, for a girl who says she hates pink.
it was something in the way her smile cracked and her eyes glistened in the light. it was the three cups of tea a day, the two black coffee mugs, and a bottle a wine a day, that lead you to think she was not sane. it was one puff from the cigarette, then another and another, until she felt warm. until the smell of tobacco penetrated in her clothes, in her fingers, in her hair. it was the way she held her journal in one hand and her pen and camera in the other. she’d sit in her room; the quietest room in the whole apartment; with the faucet on and water running. simply, to overshadow her tears that stemmed from many emotions she had repressed and could not dare to set free in public. it was in the way she would wipe her eyes and sit on her bed and write magic. things that embodied any possible and impossible feeling known to man kind. it was the things she wrote that set loose her feelings of solitude, guilt, abandonment, amd fear. it was the things she wrote that had you thinking you knew her well. and you could ask yourself how such quiet girl had so much to say? how she could hurt her body my feeding it such addictive substances. and you’d call her insane. but that girl knew she was okay, because she had felt things no other being could understand, so she wrote. she wrote for the whole world to see. she felt things they couldn’t.
