So yesterday I burnt myself with a curling iron and the burn ended up looking like a hickey. Later, one of my friends came up and asked who he was, and I simply replied “oh he’s super hot. He gets turned on easily and he has this massive rod of at least 8 inches” when she asked what his name was, I said “conair” and then walked away.
i make myself a hallway of bad pictures; half the wall on fire - here’s where the scream met my throat, here’s where he failed to kiss me and i broke, here’s where i panicked, here is where i gave up on everything. somewhere else is the good things and i don’t touch them often because for some reason they make me ache. like i never really had it anyway. i have a forest i won’t touch for fear that i’ll poison it up. that one day i’ll come back and it will smell of the rest of me; blood, iron, burning skin. here is where she kissed me, isn’t it blooming brightly - but it hurts, doesn’t it, because she found it so easy to leave. i survive in the in between. a graveyard of things that were almost happy.