Unapologetic Clarification

She chews her mints when they’re whole, and is numb to her surroundings. So she wears her cold sweaters damp with rain reads poetry written circa 1944 so she can escape right here and right now. Panting between words of desperation, she’s the type to leave fingerprints on glass hearts and will never tell how conflicted her desires have become; whether to sleep to kill time or stay awake because dreams of you haunt her. You’ll taste her in your tears for she likes her love life like her drinks: shaken not stirred. Something about an endless dial tone and unanswered voicemails reminds you of her and in the dead silence of 3:23am you hear her soft footsteps tapping against your hardwood floor on her way out the door, wearing your T-shirt. She dreads ending her cigarettes more than her own life and doesn’t show how she’s constantly longing for more. Just more. Never satisfied and the void in her chest is greater than any canyon that even a god had the power to create. All her writing is done in third person to experience the illusion of total control, but maybe that’s just how she is.
Maybe this is just who I am.
You can’t piece together my broken soul, I am no puzzle, and I am not sorry.

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