you want to wake up and you want to do your makeup because you want to look pretty. and then you pick up paganism because you want to be more spiritual. and you want to get a new window. and you want to make money and get some school clothes. and you want to kiss pretty girls in the backs of places and you want to love them really, really hard for a few hours, but that's not anything you want to share with anyone. maybe you want to get into substance abuse. maybe you want to sweep it under the rug under the guise of being young. you want to be a writer. you want to be interesting. you want to be cool enough to die like sylvia plath and hunter thompson and ernest hemingway. and you want people to say "well. i mean, yeah. kind of saw that coming," because no one has to take responsibility for you if you were never a real person in the first place, and how much easier would that be for every one? i'll tell you — a lot fucking easier. and you want to be easy. easy to love easy to hate easy to stomach easy easy easy. you want all of these things and you want to be magical. fleeting. nameless and well-known. or maybe you don't. because, really, you just want to be able to fall asleep tonight. and that's it.
YOU ARE READING
me, fumbling over commas
Poetryi don't know how to describe this. it's nothing, really. or maybe too much of a couple different things.
