I am starting to hate books where the main character doesn't die.
I hate it because then I have to let them go
I have to let them learn new things without me
they love new people without me
they end their life without me
I know I am very selfish
I feel like I can be so many different types of people to a whole bunch of different people
the only downfall is that I need to remember those personalities for when I meet the same people again.
Love is like the coal to a hearth
If I am a hearth
I need this coal to feel alive
But too much of this coal is not very good for everyone else
The pollution that comes out of the home is painful
This home I was recently placed in
Told me that I was special
But it doesn’t want my coal anymore
Nor does she want to add more
This new pollution that I create roams and begs someone to finally dispose of my hearth
For now, my Hearth is useless
My knees are holding my chin as I sit against the building made of old cellphones that were forgotten once a newer model came out. Alcohol drips down from my chin as I lose focus of the wine bottle in my hand. It rests in my palm, oddly light, but the sound of the glass hits hard. The ground hadn't noticed the anti-depressants I added, and instead of flowers, brown weeds grew and died trailing my tiny feet.
As I swallow the last bit of liquid I was holding in my mouth while it burned into my taste buds, I keep thinking that I might have made a mistake. My insides curl as they come hurling out. Acid and wine burn my throat on the way up. It feels strangely satisfying as saliva runs down my throat. I feel calm and overwhelmed at the same time as the vomit doesn't stop. I can feel my lungs inflate as...