(no subject)
Year after year I wrote inside this box. This box because I needed it. Live-journal, not alive at all. Zeros and ones filling up the sky.
This year--I'll be 20. A crazy calm. Like driving night roads through thick fog.
The old words on the tongue now hard to swallow. Like a noose tied and fitted.
Scars and youth are the same. They're never gone.
But I don't need to anymore.
This year--I'll be 20. A crazy calm. Like driving night roads through thick fog.
The old words on the tongue now hard to swallow. Like a noose tied and fitted.
Scars and youth are the same. They're never gone.
But I don't need to anymore.