Shoulder blades blades blades blades blades blades blades blades blades blades
I don’t miss you. I miss the dream that I let myself live in with you.
No, saying it out loud didn’t help at all.
No, saying it out loud didn’t help at all. At all. At. All.
You know how if you think of a specific word long enough it starts to sound funny and you start to question the way the syllables taste and the way your tongue has to move to form such a weird collection of sounds and how when you say it slow it doesn’t even sound like the same word anymore and then you try it with different inflections and it’s funny sometimes.
That’s the way I think about everything.
I run over the smallest details in my head until I start to question everything about it. It’s not all the time, but those are usually the days when I have to sleep a lot. It’s usually not funny.
Sometimes when I crawl into bed exhausted and angry and a little drunk (but not drunk enough) I wonder if I could ask someone to save me from myself. But I never can. That would mean admitting defeat, admitting I can’t save myself, admitting I can’t save you, admitting that I couldn’t save you-which I will never ever ever admit, not even to myself and especially not to you.
It doesn’t matter if I am in the most beautiful city in the world
ugly leaks out from my veins, a stench of hopelessness and despair that keeps me in bed for days; days that always turn to weeks.
