I’m slowing it down. Trying, so hard to write what I could never find the words to say. My chest is burning, heavy and all I want to do is smash my fist into something—anything, regardless of splitting bone. Tearing skin, scoring flesh—it never bleeds enough to let this bitterness seep out of my veins. You may as well try scoring into concrete. I don’t feel anything anymore, even if my body seems delicate and easily broken, I don’t flinch. And it’s because of you all.
One. I love and hate the way your dark eyes see into me, through me.
When I took you out for coffee, Dad,
So let's take a moment to talk about alcohol. Being smashed. Getting wellied. And what a more appropriate time to do it than when I'm still intoxicated at 8:07 AM, from the night before.