she’s a tangle of half-filled notebooks
crumpled book jackets.
the post-it note on her bathroom mirror—
“STILL I RISE” in careful, all-caps calligraphy—
screams every morning that
is the only one who can
but when she meets the boy
with the magnifying-glass eyes
and the Kerouac tattoos,
she can’t help but want to find the constellations in him,
to trace his thoughts
into a beautiful painting of stars.
she plucks the cigarette
from his spiderleg fingers,
and as the friendly smoke fills her lungs,
she imagines how easy it would be to let him heal her wounds.
instead she lets the roll of white paper and tobacco
fall to the concrete
and meet the soft hot rubber
of her purple combat boots.
ah yes the four seasons. wet, hot, halloween, and christmas
everyone’s trying to stump the akinator so i’m gonna try and see if he’ll know that i’m thinking of the little symbol on the front of his turban
come on it hasn’t even been 10 fucking seconds
GOD DAMN IT
i fucking hate this stupid piece of shit genie fuck him i hate him so fucking much
do you ever read old conversations you had with someone and realize how much more they used to be interested you and it makes you feel like complete shit because everything is different now and you can tell you’ve just lost that shine that got their attention in the first place