the notebook
on the days when i am trying to crawl out of alcohol withdrawal symptoms, like right now, i often think of a few lines by Charles Bukowski. "some men never die and some men never live but we're all alive tonight."
the notebook
one reason. that's all they need to cut me down, and they'll do it without blinking. me? i've got twenty thousand, twenty thousand, reasons to burn it all to the ground, and yet here i am, quietly sitting in that corner of the bar,
the notebook
the city doesn't love me. maybe it never did. people whisper my name like a curse they're trying not to invoke, or a storm they once survived and fear might come back stronger. they're terrified because i remind them of what they tried to
the notebook
when all the expensive lipsticks in the world can no longer keep you calm, when all the luxury, the bright events, the perfect outfits, the exchange rates with too many zeros, and the direct flights to promised lands still cannot quiet the ache in your chest. and somewhere between those
the notebook
he still calls me Bails. sixteen years have passed. cities changed, faces aged, lovers came and went, but the nickname never did. sometimes it lands in my inbox like a ghost from another decade, small and familiar, stripped of the weight it once carried but still sharp enough to sting.
the notebook
somewhere right now, he's telling his new girlfriend what a terrible person i was, and she's sitting there smiling like she just won the lottery. two clowns. one circus. the truth is, he's recycling the same tired victim story because accountability was never something