Sometimes we are alive. These rare and beautiful moments seem to only exist after 2 am when the rest of the city is asleep and we busy ourselves shedding our Sunday skin.
Sometimes we run. Sometimes we scream. Sometimes you tell me that my eyes burn like wildfires at the end of a month-long drought and that, even though we are barely twenty, I have been setting you aflame for the last hundred years.
We’re like fire, see; burning up the world’s oxygen on the inhale, destroying ourselves on the exhale. Our lungs are wearing thin beneath our ribs and I try my best to forget the idea of smoke and embers, try to breathe it out without choking on the excess.
These sporadic hours of life are enough to kill us both, but we’re just kids, baby (your lips are chronically chapped and I wonder if it has something to with the number of lies of you tell, the number of times you scrub your mouth out with bleach trying to eradicate the taste). I won’t tell you that I don’t believe you; that twenty-year-olds are not children and are not prodigies and are nothing more than underdeveloped adults trying to survive.
Our idea of survival is watching our groceries rot on the kitchen table, skipping meals for cigarettes, sharing a tiny bed and asking strangers for enough spare change to wash our sheets. It’s nothing glamorous, but I wake up with a beating heart and numbness in my fingers all the same.
Keep kicking for another day, darling, the city comes alive at night. I survive for these rare and beautiful moments that you make feel alive.
[a/n: I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired wowowow sorry if this is awful but ily]
