daisy alcott. two. cbd.

daisy alcott;

I'm supposed to tell you that I'm grateful Mom and Dad let me be interested in photography, supposed to tell you how much it means to me that they let me follow my passion for art instead of, well, the district's passion for killing our youth. And I am! Don't get me wrong. The last thing I want to do is step onto the mat with Bea and have her lay me on my ass again. Worse, have her pretend I could lay her out on hers.

It's not something that I think I'm going to be able to describe easily, now that I'm trying, but I guess that's the way with all things that are hard to say out loud. It's felt my entire life though like this is an indulgence in something that I can't put my fingers on, a sort of kindness that I can't understand why they would try and take away from me. As though, every time someone gifts me with a new set of brushes, a fresh canvas, it's coming with a sort of ticking clock. And I just wish that I knew whatever line it is that I'm going to cross, whatever it is that put a stick up Alphie's ass, and wrecked Bea as far as I can tell. Even Cygnus runs around with his secrets now.

All this because I don't know what goes on behind closed doors.

And that kills me.

I hate being left out of things, hate that I don't understand what the fuck is going on, at any point in time, ever. It's not fair.

But two months. That's all I have to keep waiting.

And I'll keep trying to pick the lock in the meantime.