Coiled so deeply in the beds of our misfortunate teenage lives as depression hangs from dark grey skies and I just want you to be alright. And I know you’re just looking for a high that can make you forget the need to jump from your bedroom window on the fourth floor just so you can hear the crack in your bones when they successfully split into two against the concrete as rose red fills up the gaps in the sidewalk.
But for now you’re probably on the other side of the city, under the faint glow of candles and lighters for the next cigarette to sit between your lips with flushed cheeks the pink so effortlessly mixing in with velvet skin. And for a split second the idea of you seems like something I may need but then I think of the overgrown strands of raven black hair you push back with ease letting your fingers take a tour of your scalp before they’re back to work sniffing away the three white lines on the table. That’s what makes me hate you. The sense of unreliability that lingers in the air with the familiar sent of cologne and tobacco that follows you around and it makes me want to let you go. But at the end of the day, I would always want you to be alright. -H