A withered crimson rose has it’s thorns pricking the inside of your chest. Painful is the memory of the “used to be” of you and me.
Tagged as: old journal. writing. this was not written for anyone ok I swear I scribbled this down while I was in my high school English class. haha. Why am I explaining myself. these tags are conversational and irrelevant. hello. actually no I shouldn't say hello because by the time people see this I'll be gone for another week or so. okay I'm done tagging.