𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

v

he's got a wad of 50 dollar bills and a marlboro pressed between those gnarled teeth to keep his mouth shut. because within the element of truthfulness there is always gonna be exceptions. the temptation to spit out a string of sugarcoated lies with a mouthful of blood is prominent. but the lingering taste of candy cocaine and artificial- strawberry lipstick makes the boy hold his tongue.

in the back pocket of his bloodstained jeans resides a piece of paper, folded once, twice, too many times; a declaration of love from one of his bitches. he's only opened it once, and he will not open it again. it will go through the wash with a cap of bleach and a frown, and he will not think about it again, ( until he's 20 years old and he's finally realised that he fucked up those raw, adolescent years that could have made him a stronger man ) because he knows in a shallow pool somewhere in that egotistical mind, that it will not be the last of such a letter.

he can't even love his own mama. so how in hell is he supposed to love a broken teen girl with bleach in her heart and lust on her mind ?

he's got tears in his eyes and they sting. they sting harder than the seconds after a backhand to the face from his ever so adoring father. they sting worse than the first inhale of nicotine to pure lungs. worse than that pain u feel at 3 o'clock in the morning when you realise that ur wasting your life away worrying about things that don't matter  ( but they do, and maybe that's the problem)

and he just wants to SCREAM he just wants to scream until his lungs are raw and he can hear his heartbeat pulsing through the 32º air of a summer night. he wants to scream until the whole world knows his name and how his tears taste when they're all logged up in his throat from sobbing about pretty girls (and pretty boys) and all the things wrong with this dreadful modern world of ours. middle fingers to the sky and his head to the damp earth, he just wants to scream.

but he can't.

50 dollar bills, remember ?