When Chelsea Jones bumps into Garrett Driscoll, she’s immediately drawn to his rugged charm, good looks, and rough demeanour. He’s everything she could want—strong, capable, a tough man with years of ranching experience under his belt. It’s a textbook example of a love story, and Chelsea is certain that she’s found the one.

However, as the pair spend more and more time together, Chelsea finds her...

TW: Light self harm/suicide ideations.

Bustling, barging, barreling through life,

Soaking in love, fear, joy, pain and strife.

We all dart aorund like rats in a maze,

And we act as if one day we’ll all be finally saved.

From this cycle, this torment of repetitive sorrow

That lasts from yesterday well into tomorrow.

Yet when we all lay our weary heads down to sleep,

Our minds are finally ours t...

Tattered threads weave a story of lovers who used to be,

And ugly recreation of a beautiful tapestry.

Lingering in the fabric, echoes of what once was,

Treasured hues of paint streaked across a cracked marble vase.

My brain, it’s duly forsaken you,

While my sutured heart aches with the pain of two.

Sewing needles weave my shattered heart back together,

The very same threads that wove this very ...

The rain patters down around me, the pale grey sky’s salty tears cascading down around me like a bed sheet of invigorating moisture. The rain is cold, and it chills me to the bone, but the frosty temperature seems to jar me out of my monotonous sludge that once resembled thoughts. I came out here to escape the tapping of fingertips against keyboards, stuck in those cramped, grey cubicles even long...

There. Behind me.

I whirl around, the shadowy figure of _something _just barely out of sight. It’s there, I know it’s there.

Though I know it’s surely not real.

The whispers started, I think, in the basement. That cold, stone floored room with peeling, sickly yellow paint, that curled down to reveal the thick, concrete walls that once marked me as their prisoner.

Camping with grandma was my fa...

Trigger warning! This writing has somewhat graphic depictions of self harm and suicide.

It’s not his name that matters. It’s not his name because it’s ever single other part of him that means so terribly much that I can’t seem to handle it. His sickly, honey sweet voice oozes in my head, a sugary sludge concoction of love and fear that’s being forced down my throat.

Get out.

He’s in there. I c...