“Do you remember? The night you came to my door, your body leaning like an old oak, your fingers tapping your thighs like Morse code and we sat relearning the rhythm of speech, but giving in to the hunger of silence. You asked me to show you my arms, two pale runways never built for planes. You never saw the garden I was growing, sowing rows into my skin, planting regret, growing shame. You only saw journal lines, a page to write a letter That night you left rows of sharpied ink on my arms, and I watched it fade in the coming days, taking with it, the summer harvest.”— Kelsey Danielle (via pigmenting)
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schoenedingeblog: “Do you remember? The night you came to my door, your body leaning like an old...
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