You run circles around the truth. Everyone you love can see the burnt rubber on the worn-out soles of your shoes. You’ve learned how to dodge well-meaning questions, but you never figured out how to out-run bullets. Instead, you stop dead in your tracks and spread your arms out wide. You allow yourself to be struck between the ribs, and relish the warmth of the metal.
Pain builds character.
Sometimes I wish the gap between fact and fiction didn’t seem so wide. That reality didn’t seem like an abyss that would swallow me whole. Trying to balance bliss and responsibility is tiring. Forcing myself to pretend not to miss my comforting vices is even more so. So, here I sit. Hallucinating that I’m debating with my alter ego on my basement floor. Pills in one hand, a wine cooler in the other and the sinking feeling that I’ve gone too far.
Science says it’s easier to break a habit than to form one, but science has never had to deal with my pride.
Is there a reason for my love of the sky? Is there some over-arching theme that will one day hit me over the head and cause me to write tirelessly for hours on the topic? Maybe I long for the sky because I long for the chance to be up in the heavens. Maybe I just like the pretty colors.
There’s nothing special about a girl like me. I’m all smeared eyeliner and chewed up pencils. I can’t light matches with my teeth or inhale smoke like a champ. You want a cool girl? Then get the hell away from me.
Is my sadness endearing, or just trite?
Spare my feelings, don’t answer.