i’m disappointed, but i’m not surprised. because i’ve ridden this bus route a thousand times, memorized each twist and turn. i know this hurt with my eyes closed.
so i keep band-aids in my back pocket. and that’s not a pretty metaphor, i mean it. i hide in my bedroom, until there’s nothing left but ash and bones. one final mess to clean up, i suppose.
i’m sorry. because i’m always sorry, and the word slides off my lips like water, when i don’t even mean it, just another fucking force of habit, you know?
and in my head, it’s a grand battle; violin bravado. but in reality, it’s just… a stuffy classroom, burning eyes, and a day that never ends. and the path of least resistance might be bloodstained and dirty, but right now it’s hard to give a shit.
so i burn my tongue on scalding tea, until i can’t think, can’t breathe, and i saw it coming a mile away, didn’t i? watch myself wither in third person, and bite back a scream. because what if it doesn’t get better? what if i live out my days like this, for the rest of eternity?
what if the fairy tale outgrows me? what if someday, even my favourite t-shirt is tired and old, what if the glass breaks, and i’m left to reckon a the sinkhole. and what if can’t do it?
what if i let go?