The sad ones: A girl with... a messy hair. Hungry heart. Chapped lips. Skinny legs. Collarbones. Insecurities. Little lies. Scarred wrists. Empty eyes. And unrequited love. Fell for a boy with... anxiety attacks. Bloody knuckles. Deep depression. Bitten nails. Works of Dostoyevski. Bitter smiles. Sarcastic words. And knowledge of Japanese. He gave her sympathy and she turned it into poetry.
I am eternally, devastatingly romantic, and I thought people would see it because ‘romantic’ doesn’t mean ‘sugary.’ It’s dark and tormented — the furor of passion, the despair of an idealism that you can’t attain.