I consider Straight Edge, but
decide I don’t care.
stuck in that place where she’d look at her feet and pull all the shapes, because she wants everyone to be happy. but the DJ is some dick truck driver they found in the restroom. and there’s not much left. hardly much left.
she’s an isolating kind of intensity. and it’s not like she could’ve healed them all anyway. so she breaks her soul.
all anyone can do is love.
love hunt // love hard
it’s neither the depth of prose, nor the brilliance of idea.
we are misdiagnosed, misprescribed, misinterpreted. there is a gap. we fill it with dreams. we fill it with caffeine and sugar and desire. we fill it with alcohol, with emotion. we sustain ourselves with stimulants.
there is no method in this, no ritual.
there is no future in it. but, hopeless, we hope.
we sustain ourselves with stimulants. stimulants like love.
I like to think, sometimes, that we were tangles of ribbons. ends that never quite met. a complex web of something.
we weren’t, of course.
we were only two people who weren’t all that greatly in love.
and ribbon doesn’t tear, not like flesh.
you say I didn’t think that you were good enough. that was never it. you hated me for thinking that you were. I looked into you and saw potential that made you sick.