( jules )

Holding grudges against every candle. Crying about laundry day. Ripping my tights on subway platforms;  New York getting greedy for my blood. Not getting my shit together. Blowing all my paychecks on chai tea lattes, contour palettes from Sephora. Convincing myself I need another cigarette.  Promising my parents that I’ll see them more, soon, tomorrow, this week. Never doing a single dirty dish. Washing my hair every four days.  Never replying to my emails, I know, I’m The Worst.  Always in bed, messy bun, drawstring pants to help the bloat. God, I want to talk the most shit right now but I would have to change all the names, start a new blog, go incognito. And they would still find me. I’m drunk on bread, high off of the aluminum in my own deodorant. Everything is a swipe left. My sadness is always missing the next stop, or getting off too soon, or not getting off at all. Nostalgia is never as good  as the real thing but I’ll bottle that shit up and sell it to the highest bidder.