*and i'll see you there.

So badly I wanted to reach out to my dad’s worn leather hands and tell him that I was in fact still sick. But it wasn’t the kind of sick he could cure with a dose of Dayquil and a hug or breakfast in bed. I tucked my hands deep into my ribs, feeling them shake lightly. I had been doing that a lot lately. Not sure if it was nerves or I was just broken in ‘vibrate only’ with the ringer shut off. But regardless I never asked for help, though I hadn’t actively denied it either. No one had to know how much I was suffering because even if they tried to rescue me I knew I was too far down for them to ever hope to reach. I’m sick; what else do you call someone who mangles their flesh and calls the wounds beautiful? TBMS(A novel)

(Source: secretsby-candlelight)