wordconvict

Your tux is the color of a coal miner’s face after a long, hard day of work- something you’ve never had to experience yet you talk as though you’re just as worn out; your trivial chit-chat is turning syrupy with every sip, although your sentences aren’t getting any sweeter you grab another glass of the effervescent liquid, hoping the sea of people will turn to black dust, and it will be dark enough for you to fall asleep as you walk tipsily to the bathroom, the overpaid opera singer belts her last high note- a bit too high; your crystal glass shatters into a thousand pieces And with it, you shatter too.

I broke my bones into sticks and stones- let them pile for a fire in the end as I burned, the only answer I yearned: was it you who lit the match?

When you said you needed space, you meant more between your fingers, so you could hold someone else's hand.