I used to fill my bedroom up with vinyls carrying hope, voices that would bounce off the lavender walls and against the posters of my favorite tv shows.
Polaroids glued to the mirror on the verge of falling off this is how I used to see yesterday. Memories stuffed in bottles of faintly scented perfume and bottomless bags immersed in tiny letters we would pass around in class, including the ones where we’d talk about our crushes in capital letters that mostly ended with messy exclamation marks. That was how much the tiniest of things had mattered.
I don’t really know where I’m going with this but I do know that my bedroom walls no longer scream volumes of all the dreams I used to tuck under my sheets every night. The Polaroids didn’t last very long, they were replaced by picture frames burdened by the weight of lanky girls in skin-tight dresses with wide smiles and empty insides. Vinyls became a waste of space, besides nothing could really beat Spotify. Boys with coffee tainted eyes and toothy smiles wanted more than bus rides with fingers intertwined. Our bodies were no longer a sum of the love we carried in our hearts and ambitions that defined us but we filled ourselves up with neon lights and pop music, kissing the tips of cigarettes and learning to hide the marks on our necks left by guys who promised us forever, the kind that lasted a single night but not much longer.
And sometimes I wonder how a person can go from being so recklessly in love with everything around them to scratching and clawing their way to feel something once again. How quickly you can get infatuated with this world and how even faster you wish to leave once you get to know it some more. -H