femcel

she’s the kind of girl who burns through marlboros like rosaries — counting each one as a small prayer for something she no longer believes in. her apartment smells like cheap perfume and despair, the kind that lingers even after you leave. she eats in whispers, starves in silence, worships the ache in her stomach like it’s the only thing that still feels real. most days she doesn’t hate the world as much as she hates waking up in it. the moonlight loves her, though — it drips through her blinds and touches her like it’s sorry.