idk, wordspitspitspit
She lays on the grass and dreams of yesterdays forgotten. She blinks at the sky as they try to paint us all with the same brush, in the same colors. The voices echo and the pictures flash. The letter torn and floating away in the wind, because she was sick of trying to read between the lines. She’s tired of everything, actually. But then a plane in the sky sparks her memory, and reminds her to breathe - as if living was her biggest interest right now. The more she thinks about it, the easier it seems; a pocketknife curved the right way, sunken into the skin, the vein, in the right place, could end everything - and isn’t that just what she wants?