† † †

No more shortcuts or bottled water, no more winter. No more girls with red hair. Only the remaining decimal points rounded off - somewhere out of sight, and the airport is not home dummy and we will begin boarding shortly. The pulse of blood, in my fingertips, in your fingertips, useless.

We tuck ourselves into bed now. The noise outside becomes another song with words we can’t remember.

I’m talking to myself and I am talking to myself, I’m ten. I’m pretending. I made a new language - like pig latin or some shit. I’m in the backyard digging for buried treasure. I am telling myself a Cinderella story every day so I can really believe I am beautiful, young, and a fairy tale ending - of course. I wonder how you read this and what you think I am talking about because it isn’t like that at all. This is a message where the words do not mean what they seem. I’m talking shit about me to me and as long as I can use my own language and pretend I am a code-breaker or a numerologist I don’t have to remember that someone else is inside you now, and you’re saying “please” over and over until they explode. I know it’s nowhere near as good as it was with me and never will be which should make me satisfied but the worst part is that you are okay with that.

here