disorder » styles

week nine

on monday i threw up my food because the girl in your class had flirted with you;

you said she was really pretty

and i tried to write you a letter but instead of my pencil i used my blade and instead of my ink i used my blood

i hope you don't mind

on tuesday i was a little less sad so i decided to write you a letter anyway

Dear Haz,

She can paint a lovely picture
But this story has a twist
Her paint brush is a razor
And her canvas is her wrist
She paints her pretty picture
In a colour that's blood red
While using her sharp paint brush
She ends up finally dead
Her pretty pictures fading
Quite slowly on her arm
The blood is not racing trough her
She can no longer do harm
She painted her pretty picture
But her picture has a twist
You see
Her mind was her razor
And her heart was her wrist

i wish i had wrote this but i sadly got it from tumblr

Love,
Abby

PS. Sorry i'm not 'yours' yet

on wednesday you asked me why i had my bracelets on
i told you the cat came by again
and thankfully you didn't ask any details

on thursday you told me i looked beautiful

i didn't believe you and that night i cut myself again

on friday you told me you had to go to te hospital

and you asked me to come with you

on saturday they stuck needles in your bones

you tried to stop crying and i tried to comfort you

we both failed

on sunday you asked me if i could lay in the hospital bed with you

so we stayed in bed watching the sun disappear

i never felt happier

Dear Abby,

you just left to get some food so i decided to write a letter

i don't know where we stand Abby, are we friends or are we more? i tried to ask you Abby, i really tried, but i was so afraid of you cutting me off. i know you tend to shut people out when they get close to you, i noticed.

don't you want to be happy Abby? i'm so happy when i'm with you Abbs, i can't tell you how happy i am. that night, when we made love, i thought it meant something... but you don't want to talk about it; and i wish i could tell you i was okay with it but the thing is; i'm not.

i wish we had more time together to sort things out,

Yours, Harry

PS. Would you like to be my girlfriend?