"Some people are old at 18 and some are young at 90. Time is a concept that humans created."
-Yoko Ono, 1977  (via bl-ossomed)
The Perfect Mess


She waits
Waiting for the phone to ring
Waiting for an end in the arguing
It keeps her up all night
but she’s gotten used to the silence
In the darkness, she finds a balance 
her mind races
Each passing day feels the same
Repetition is her only game 
dragging herself out of bed
hanging onto life by the thread 
And out into the world she goes
but inside, she withers like a rose 
Feeling like an unread book upon the shelf
Ink upon her skin, she’s an artwork in itself
standing there in her home-made dress
she sewed with the threads of distress 
But she’s not dressed to impress
The perfect mess

*adds ‘slept a whole night knowing a spider was in my room’ to résume*

Okay but does it taste like teen spirit