4am. doors and windows wide open. nothing gets this stagnant feeling out. i play pretend, and, in my mind, i am dozens of people i'll never be. i change scenes and curtain colors. i move around the pictures on my fridge and dye my hair. i'm still suffocating. i want to run away and travel to places i've only dreamed about. i want to take millions of spectacular, half-blurry photographs using that fancy camera that has been collecting dust on my bookshelf. i want a different life; this one is for sale...
i'm drowning the young melodramatic me in a bottle of cheap red wine. writing saves me. idiotic thoughts come together in such a simpler way; i write away the chaos rather then having to open up the scars and let someone new in.
i want to write away every single thing that suppresses my mind, every single feeling that blinds my heart and every single sleepless hour that goes by in this dimly lit living room of mine. i found the perfectly sterilized words to dissect the futility of my insomnia. now i need to lose the shaking pulse so i can perform the autopsy on my dead aspirations. when you don't have anything , you take what you can get. inhaling the thin venom that is nicotine, my hands keep shaking, my head is still spinning, as my heart is racing to some imaginary finish line. force of habit. i want to race to that finish line; i want to crash and die as my heart explodes with adrenaline and the rain washes the pain away so far down the drain to the wasteland of the past.
you've always known how to make an exit; yet, you caught me by complete surprise on your last one. how many times did i have to crash and burn to see the new you? all these years i haven't been able to forget all the cruel things we've ever said, all the twisted ways we hurt each other, and every single word we never used to say 'i love you'.
idling past, with no justification in the present.
good night, past. hello, first day of the rest of my life.
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