So it’s winter; So I fall. Like leaves from trees or blood from knees. Like chapters pushed back as I read a story that could be about me.
‘I’m so fucked. I’ll never leave. I’ll never be anything.’
Fuck this. I’ll find another ending. I’ll twist my throat round with a wrench ‘til I can breathe again, because ‘sometimes all we really need is distance to show us what it is we’re really missing’.
And if I read it, then it’s real. Well so what?
It seems like all I do now is burn bridges. Well I’m sick of being stuck on this side of the river.