I self-examine. I criticize. I fall short.
You’re the “twenty-something grandma” of your friend group.
Your words hurt, but I refuse to give you the satisfaction of seeing my tears. I refuse to let your words affect me.
Every fiber of my being itches to reach out to you, to talk with you, to catch up with you.
Give me the strength to save myself from the wreckage.
I longed to save myself, but you insisted on dragging me out of the rubble, though your desire to pull me to safety was unrequited.
August feels like life itself; a stunningly intricate web of joy and melancholy.
It’s complacency. It’s resignation. It’s acceptance.
I flirted with instability as I let the dance encapsulate me, tying and binding me in the wake of its dangerously hypnotizing spell.
You had been eager to go out, to see your family and friends, but now, you feel numb, completely unfeeling.