evilfaeries

My leg hurts, and it's not even the leg that I smashed on the hard wood floor this morning, while jumping out of bed to stop you from leaving. Maybe this is my memoir of you, my last hurtful memory to think of you by. They always did say that love hurts. Behind my pretty smile, there's a thick film coating my teeth; and I can't help but run my tongue over it to see if it tastes like you. I'm not sure if it does or not, 'cause my taste buds become extinct after I open a bottle of tequila, and half of it is gone. Slurred words and teary eyed expressions are all that is left of me. And I'm sure that you think it's not your fault. It's never yo

6:58 am The love letter began. Two old men sat in their greasy work clothes at bright red booths while sipping black coffee, as they talked about war. Of course it wasn't the ongoing war in Iraq that they were talking about. [ That would be too controversial of a conversation to have in this little bible belt town.] Instead, it was the Vietnam war that they spoke of. Quite a boring conversation if you ask me, but bits and pieces of it were interesting, especially the parts about the older mans brother, who went to war as a well respected level headed man, and came home seriously fucked up in the head. It was fun to sit and listen to them ta