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They’re pretty, but I’m afraid to touch them— I know they’ll crumble the moment I do.
I think they’re beautiful. Beautiful because they don’t last. Beautiful because they’re broken.
And I like shattered glass: the way it reflects anything you shine on it, the way I can see myself in the pieces— not whole, but fragmented.
I know I’ll bleed when I reach to touch it, drip the contents of my heart across smooth faces and edges that seldom forget.
And I like coffee. I drink it with cream to soften the bitterness. But I never add sugar— too much sweetness makes me sick.
It keeps me up when I should be asleep, telling secrets I should’ve kept, dreading the grinds at the bottom of the cup.
But I guess some things aren’t meant to be held for long— they bruise, or cut, or run out the moment you reach out to hold them.
I don’t mind so much.
Because wilted flowers aren’t soft... but they are pretty.