i came home with blood on my hands and you were terrified of what i’d done to someone. it never occurred to you that the blood on my hands was my own.
do you think he’ll fall for frank sinatra at full volume and being wine drunk by 10am?
i’m losing myself. can’t you tell?
i will be screaming until i can no longer make sound.
is my smudged mascara, black mini skirt, bruised knees, red eyes, hungover state aesthetic enough for you?
she looks like me, talks like me, acts like me. and i know you can’t stand that she’s still not quite me.
i hate big houses. with their empty space. i only have sadness to fill it.
my worst nightmare is being stuck in this terribly boring town doing something mediocre.
i feel you in the sun shining down on my shoulders. in the breeze in my hair. in the tears on my cheeks. in the iron in my blood. in the taste on my tongue. in the scratch on my left shoulder. in bit marks down my neck. in your initial hanging from a chain around my neck.
i can feel myself falling. and i have never ever been happier.
i am terrified of failure. yet right now it is all i can produce.