Limelight. The burden of being home alone on Saturday night. My right is gone.
Youthful flutter bridges the gap between the loneliness and the lamplight. Etches.
I sketched my prose on side table mirror, waited for my telephone to stop ringing.
Waiting for the moment to hit you when you’ve realized you’ve wasted it all. 26
is the age when you finally notice all of your friends have gone away and grown up.
Aging begins to construct itself like a paint-by-numbers. The cuteness of 19, gone.
Like it or leave it. Redneck country in a small-town epicenter. Pale like my sweater.
Another series of manic depressive glances and beautiful pity fucking.