Tear down the house that I grew up in, I’ll never be the same again. Take everything that I’ve collected and throw it in a pile.

Bulldoze the woods that I ran through, carry the pictures of me and you. I have no memory of who I once was, and I don’t remember your name.

Park the old car that I loved the best, inspection’s due and it won’t pass the test. It’s funny how I have to put it to rest, and how one day I will join it.

I remember crying over you, and I don’t mean like a couple of tears and I’m blue. I’m talking about collapsing and screaming at the moon, but I’m a better man for having gone through it.

(Source: softshinythings)

You remember too much,

my mother said to me recently.

Why hold onto all that?

And I said,

Where do I put it down?

When gods die, they die hard. It’s not like they fade away, or grow old, or fall asleep. They die in fire and pain, and when they come out of you, they leave your guts burned. It hurts more than anything you can talk about. And maybe worst of all is, you’re not sure if there will ever be another god to fill their place. Or if you’d ever want another god to fill their place. You don’t want fire to go out inside you twice.