End

There is this album that will always remind me of this girl and bring up this feeling and it's really not like a "good times" feeling but more like a "just let it be" kind of failure feeling. The music is heavy like guilt and the choruses are lulling but all I can hear is a faint echo off the curvature of her jaw.

On the seventh day of Christmas, Jesus put his hand on my shoulder, listened to me cry, got uncomfortable, and politely excused himself from the room. He still won't answer my calls.

I don't know how to tell people that I can't stand myself. It's gotten worse and worse since people blame me for so much. I remember a blond girl who opened her tired, bruised looking eyes and smiled. She offered me a chance at normality and I will never regret taking it.

(oh, how i wanted to tell her that the only trail left for me to follow leads off the edge of this fucking bridge, a leap of faith into infinity.)

I want to tell her and I want her to deny it.

I hit the wall like a hollow bone stamp and she stopped the heist for me and helped me off the floor, leveled my eyes with hers which just stands for “Damn, you’re cute.” And we laced our fingers like corsets or thigh-high boots or nineteenth century shirt sleeves and everything was comfortable and clean until we fucked things up. And this whole mess is out of order and just a pile of feelings that have been thrown in the corner and neglected until today.

the end.