coda; cyrus & mika blitz
Dec 30, 2017 4:28:20 GMT -5
Post by fox on Dec 30, 2017 4:28:20 GMT -5
Some days, I wait for the catastrophe of my personality to make sense again.
Because like fashion, everything comes back into style, I guess – some kind of strange modernity in being depressed, our antiheros all glamorously languishing on a screen,
but nobody wants to hear the story
of weariness.
Nobody wants
to know you’re tired,
that some days it’s not about being late to photoshoots, walking into parties half-dressed, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the garbage, tossed just a day ago.
Some days,
I feel like a hole.
A the story
nobody wants to hear.
Everything's flickering. Conversation like an earworm, sick sounds all over the place. Some New Year’s party, before midnight, bite my nails and taste a memory.
I feel like falling.
When he left, I cried.
And I guess, after Pallas, there were others,
people I pulled underneath my covers, unwrapped, waited for something significant in the dim light and I was never sure if
I was just missing some joke, some secret, something to feel.
Yesterday, when he left, I cried.
Somebody, who was “such a fan,” he told me that he loved my shoots, that winter campaign, the editorials – he told me that he loved me. The first thing he ever said and
he was such a liar.
I wished –
I wished he was the locked bathroom door, the sink running water, pacing two feet back and forth. I wished he was the fucking bottle I emptied, the pack I threw out, somewhere underneath covers.
I wish he was a place to hold tears.
He left and
no, I’m not all that I’m cracked up to be, I'm not
and people leave me all the time.
All the time.
Walking into someone blurry, soft, lose footing, spill a glass of whatever, I feel like falling.
So I do.
Because like fashion, everything comes back into style, I guess – some kind of strange modernity in being depressed, our antiheros all glamorously languishing on a screen,
but nobody wants to hear the story
of weariness.
Nobody wants
to know you’re tired,
that some days it’s not about being late to photoshoots, walking into parties half-dressed, pulling a pack of cigarettes from the garbage, tossed just a day ago.
Some days,
I feel like a hole.
A the story
nobody wants to hear.
Everything's flickering. Conversation like an earworm, sick sounds all over the place. Some New Year’s party, before midnight, bite my nails and taste a memory.
I feel like falling.
When he left, I cried.
And I guess, after Pallas, there were others,
people I pulled underneath my covers, unwrapped, waited for something significant in the dim light and I was never sure if
I was just missing some joke, some secret, something to feel.
Yesterday, when he left, I cried.
Somebody, who was “such a fan,” he told me that he loved my shoots, that winter campaign, the editorials – he told me that he loved me. The first thing he ever said and
he was such a liar.
I wished –
I wished he was the locked bathroom door, the sink running water, pacing two feet back and forth. I wished he was the fucking bottle I emptied, the pack I threw out, somewhere underneath covers.
He left and
no, I’m not all that I’m cracked up to be, I'm not
and people leave me all the time.
All the time.
Fuck, I’m so drunk.
Walking into someone blurry, soft, lose footing, spill a glass of whatever, I feel like falling.
So I do.
