Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I feel my fingers raising up to touch my reflection as I outline the features on the glass. Instead of my lips lifting up, they sink into the black ground, falling hard as the realization of no one will love others who they are in the inside, but what they appear as on the outside. I wish.
YOU ARE READING
11:11
Randomdear stray eyelashes, ladybugs, dark tunnels, wishbones, dandelions, pennies, shooting stars, 11:11, and birthday candles, when will you do your job?
