I punish myself more than I play the records hanging on my wall. And that's a lot. I pretend to read a book for a month, but then I get bored and I don't tell anyone that I stopped.
I take the back roads
and go to the local goodwill to try on clothes which I still can't afford.
If 25 doesn't feel like flying, then I hope I die by 24.
These alien hands and your dark, demonic mind enter a seven-eleven, half past nine. Our hands touch in between the slushy machine and lotto tickets, but I pretend not to notice and I have never seen the light.
But I still believe that it's there. And every day I go without pretending makes me believe in that a little bit more.
I believe In contemplation, poetry that doesn't necessarily rhyme, and everything else that makes us human without even trying.
I believe in the tiring nights and endless phone calls that make me question why I ever even try at all.
I think we're getting good at this- pretending like the sunset does not affect our mood. Thinking we're still ugly when we are the prettiest things to ever exist.
I've been half dead my whole life, and it's only when I'm on the verge of
death that I ever really open my eyes. I'm in the seven-eleven checkout line with at least 4 men eyeing me down, and your nervous breath on my neck.
I count the coins in my hand. I look down and see a dirty blue
mask on the floor.
I think to myself -what's the rush?
Because I'm not that scared of dying anymore.