you can tell me this,
but i've chipped the edges of the rocks of adolescence and juvenility and subpar maturity,
and like a desperate geologist, and I haven't pulled out 3-carat diamonds or shovelled out gold. all I have sitting sitting on the lifeline of my palm is
the realisation that
words are fickle, and actions are weighty.
like flickering light bulbs,
or temporary people.
you can pretend that we're—that this is fine. you can pretend
that you haven't thrown knives like perfect-aimed
bullets that were meant to
strike me between the heartstrings.
i can pretend I haven't noticed.
but darling, we're one and the same.
- THERE'S AN OPEN DOOR, AND HERE'S A NOTE FOR YOU, MY DEAR. // e.f.
YOU ARE READING
Stagnant
General Fiction[ collection of things that never really fit, short stories, poems, whatevers ] Things that could be so much more, and yet churned to a stop.
