found via beautyineverything
The light came in like it did every morning, through the windows, through the cracks, and through my fingers. My hand did nothing to shield my eyes from the sun, so I closed them and made my way out of bed by touch. The rough edges of the broken window frame used to give me splinters, but out of habit and practice, they don't hurt anymore. Nothing about this dilapidating house hurts anymore - I think I've grown immune, as all people do to the same allergies and pains, to whatever makes this place all torn up. It doesn't hurt anymore, but when I look how rusty the windowsill is, I wonder how I let myself trust him so easily. I put flowers and pictures to cover up the stains, but the light still shines on what I don't want to see.
