"I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself."
Franz Kafka, “The Metamorphosis” (via jaded-mandarin)
She was hollow as October. Like those rows of distorted pumpkins slouching on porches, never looked closely enough to notice their empty sadness. She was as restless as November. Like a caged bird, wings fluttering frantically on the edges of home. She was as hopeful as December. Like a fresh promise on the tip of her tongue.
Sarah. 18. L.A.