reagan carbone | three | cb

You're so small, hands like delicate petals balled into angry little fists. The thorns within you go unnoticed until you say so; you are content to let them think you are nothing more than some pretty thing.

The smallest hint of poison drips from your perfume, smoking cigarettes while sitting on wooden floors, kicking your feet off the edge of the warehouse you've been staying in. Your brand of danger is a charming one, if anything.


Your eyes find the cork board on the cracked cement walls, scanning over haphazardly pinned photographs of your friends sitting in your new home and various the sunsets as seen from your roof. You pause on one specific picture. It shows you, only younger, standing next to a father, only sober, and a mother, only smiling. It feels more like a lie than a memory as you pull the picture down and toss it into the trash.