Not being able to cry when an avalanche breaks loose inside that little part of you that screams its lungs out.
I am going to drink you down.
I am going to rise.
And endlessly ravaged torn piece of paper.
I am yellowing.
But how I burn.
And there is no smoke.
It is only me.
“Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel… that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”
― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray