content warning: incredibly melodramatic poetry i will regret writing later

i never thought i’d get here. after all the spreadsheets, and prophecies. but the staircase is broken, and so am i, i think. and they smile, of course they do. but i’m old enough to know that people aren’t what they seem. and i hear the whispers, even through my headphones, when they think i’m not listening. what a waste, what a pity, oh just think of what she might have been.

if she hadn’t spent fifteen years, hands trembling, all alone. plucking out fuzzy chords with bleeding fingers, waiting for things to just get better on their own.

and how dare she go swimming in an ocean of her own misery without a liferaft, without anyone but herself, and then cry out when she couldn’t breathe? she only wanted the attention. and if she made bad choices, then that’s on her, honestly.

but wasn’t this what you wanted? another broken balloon, after the party is over. ice on the driveway, a crumpled sheet of paper. and only a few close friends would recognize me at a funeral. which probably says something. about how i fold into myself like origami, how i forget who i am sometimes. because it just feels so easy.

like falling asleep, all alone, in the same room as always. but only with the door closed. surrounded by skeletons of dreams that could have been. if i wasn’t so scared, and hurt, and stupid. so now i’ll burn these journal entries, the little butterflies and hummingbirds. whatever. it’s not like it matters anymore.

the time has come and gone, and my chance is over.

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