"Were you really reading his posture?" I whispered.
Michael ducked his head next to mine, a delightfully wicked smile on his face. "Unlike you, I have no problems using my ability for nefarious purposes." He reached up and ran his thumb over the edge of my lip and onto my cheek. "You have something on your face.",
"Liar."
He brushed his thumb over my other cheek. "I never lie about a pretty. girl's face. You're carrying so much tension in yours that I have to ask: should I be worried about you?"
"I'm fine," I said.
"Liar," Michael whispered back.
you've stained me impure, body And soul.I rip my skin. I rinse it with blood yet I'm dirty. Eternally tainted.
وہ کیا چھپیں گے میری نگاہ سے جو مکیں ہیں میری خیال میں
میں جب چاہوں ان کو دیکھ لوں وہ کہیں سہی میں کہیں سہی
No one did this to me.
But I did it myself.
I made myself bleed
all over their story.
Bled transparent blood,
only known to the one losing it.
For them, it’s maybe water—
a nuisance, wetting their pages,
causing them inconvenience.
But colour does not matter.
Even if they could see red—
wouldn’t it all be the same for them?
do the demons she keeps buried start playing with her when there’s no one else to play with
Words, nets, webs
There used to be vehicles' noises. Not too much. Just enough to get lost into. A sign life is going on. A sign it shall all pass. A shield. It was like watching life running by Infront of your eyes.
The sun rises over the Torridon Hills, illuminations cracking the sky and atmosphere with orange and yellow hues. Flocks of birds fly over the water. I look at Stacey, and her eyes dance with the colours reflecting, her cheeks and nose red from the cold.
She’s like my own sunrise. Beautiful. Perfect. She fills a part of me that’s been empty and dark for as long as I can remember.
This pretty butterfly you're wearing at your neck—
Is it a sign?
A sign of what?
A sign of oppression?
No.It's a sign of beauty.
Sign of beauty?Like… beautiful death?
What death?
No.How is it death?
Because you are wearing a thing
that looks delicate and pretty—
And you're building an illusion,
making people think it’s not choking you.
Not killing you.
Not making it difficult for you to breathe.
Then how is it a sign of beauty?
It’s a sign of decay.A sign of cruelty.
A sign of fakeness.A trick.
A trick not to let people know
that the most beautiful thing in your life
is killing you.
It’s kind of pathetic how my heart skips a beat over her willingly wanting to spend time with me. The excitement I feel that she’s sneaking
away from her friends, sneaking around mine and sliding in beside me in my sleeping bag is unmatched by any thrill I’ve ever had.
That’s just it with Stacey. She could be singing a musical horrendously off-key with food all over her face, and I’d still see her as my own fucking angel.
It’s like I’m visiting heaven while living in hell. But I want to steal her and bring her to my chaos, set fucking fire to her world and keep her in mine.
"I feel wetness on my neck from her tears, I
wrap one of my arms around the small of her back, fisting her hair.
I’m freefalling into a sea of tranquillity in her arms. My head is silent. My bones don’t shake, and I fill my lungs with her scent, wishing I could stay here forever."
This woman is always playing game and ignoring me and not paying attention
"Briggs shouldn't have brought you here," he said finally. "This place will ruin you."
"Did it ruin Lia?" I asked. "Or Sloane?"
"They're not profilers."
"Did this place ruin you?"
Dean didn't pause, not even for a second. "There was nothing to ruin."
I swam over to the edge, right next to him. "You don't know me," I said, pulling myself out of the water. "I'm not scared of this place. I'm not afraid to learn how to think like a killer, and I am not afraid of you."
I wasn't even sure why I'd added on those last six words, but they were the ones that made his eyes flash.
Blood turned blue silk red. It splattered against the walls. There was so much of it-too much.
She's crawling in it, slipping, but everywhere she goes, the knife is there.
جو ہماری مٹھی میں ہو وہ ہمارا نہیں ہوتا، جو ہماری گرفت میں نہ ہو کر بھی ہمارا ہو وہ ہمارا ہوتا ہے۔
مجھ سے اب میری محبت کے فسانے نہ کہو
مجھ کو کہنے دو کہ میں نے انہیں چاہا ہی نہیں
اور وہ مست نگاہیں جو مجھے بھول گئیں
میں نے ان مست نگاہوں کو سراہا ہی نہیں۔
I turn cruel when I'm empty
funerals are for the ones who are not dead
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