story of the week.

it shouldn't matter to me. i bite down on my ruby lips to make them darker before your knuckles touch the door, theories tacked into my skin like posters of sinners and legends. i formed a small circle with shaky legs on the cluttered carpet, pleading with your foreign eyes to ignore the obvious confession on my face. yes, i knew before you told me. how could i not? i only acted surprised because i was hoping to be. the only thing that surprised me was that i actually cared.

between terrible timing and tasteless wine, i find myself funneling reassurances with weak nights and uninvited mornings. my eyes burn every time i cross the room. there are cigarette burns in my black bag. i fight sleep with new friends and habits, smirking like the half moon above the brick when i remember your hands. my blood stays warm and they say i glow, cheek bones stretching under the covers.

i can't let myself walk your way. i'm shutting my mouth and gluing my feet to the floor. i'm listening to dreadful noise and leaving my fingers at home.

honey sweet nothings, for now.