oh and by the way, who do you think you are? You are fucking joke. it’s like everyone left and forgot to tell me where they were going to, maybe they’re not part of the plan, or I’m just not in theirs, or maybe they’re at Austin’s house. Still, there’s no me, it’s just a funeral, just a place to pretend that we care.ĭon’t think that it’s unnoticed, this sudden leave of absence. The irony is that it’s all our friends, dressed in black and talking again. I’m a ghost just like my mom, both of our tombstones read “if you loved me.” People mourn like someone died, they don’t get that it was you and I. People play out ìsorryîís and flowers, but nobody is here for me. I can’t stand, this concretes more complicated than your bed. Pull out my fucking hair, I’ll die alone and not care. One thing I’ve learned since coming to terms with moving on is no matter what I used to have: it’s gone.
I wear my heart upon my sleeve like I did when I still eighteen, and goddamnit it gets the best of me. Two years later I’m not different: still made of pieces that will not fit, forever fucked and too dramatic. And I am not strong, I’m foul mouthed and fucking ignorant. Pulled out some pieces of my fucking hair, tried screaming “help me” but nobody cares.
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