or at least mine

the thing is that the heart paints these windows so prettily. it can't see much through them. how can it bring itself to search farther, when it has made for it self something that is easier to stare at. easier to love. and can you blame it, really ?



i confess to the thick, half- creamy lines of deceptive eyeliner behind the rims of those glasses that she threw away and replaced with contacts when, after unwillingly waking up on a particularly gloomy day, she was in that odd mood for change.