nostalgianostalgiais a narrow pathleading to memoriessat far back in the mindit is riding a bikefor the first time in yearssitting on that childhood swingand remembering the funglancing at that manwho made your lifefeel so thinin the endbut there's alwaysa happiness there stilleating mother's best foodand watching herseeing her ten years agobeautifulit is that last sighas memory stealsthe true feelingof these things.
my motheris a force to be reckoned withcreates warfareif crossedyet calms meso easilysmells like lavendercrushed and crumbledlaughs like waterrunning off of smooth stoneslooks like a womanwho's had so much lifeis missedall of the timeby me.
HoratioHoratioyou were thereon the fieldthat daywere therewhen dear Opheliaher death came to meyou see and saw Yorickknew of my painthe only onemy Horatioto be everywhereand nowhere.
cicatrixMost days, Miss August wanted to set herself on fire. She could imagine the pain, probably not as much as she would be able to if she actually did it, but she could easily guess at it. She could feel the flames bubble at her skin and sizzle her hair to dust, heating up her teeth and melting her tongue. She could imagine it all, but she couldnt actually do it. At most she would light the large candle that sat on her desk and run her finger through the flame. Depending on how she felt that day, she would hold her finger within the flame for longer than she really should have, and would end up with a large blister on the tip of her finger, which she took pleasure in dealing with later on.During her dinner break she liked to go to the bathroom and stare at herself in the mirror. She always stood up from her desk, smiled casually at Julia, Mr. Ross secretary, and would knock on Mrs Hargreaves door to let her know that she was taking her break, always receiving a stern loo