sure

i miss the child i was at 17. 

i miss 17, i miss missing, i miss loving nothing. 

i miss wanting to feel and not being old enough to get it yet.

i miss thinking i was emotionally literate. 

im 19. 

nineteen. 

i am still a baby, a kid, a viriginal chalice not yet ready to be drunk from.

there is no slow down, you crazy child when it comes to me. 

my onlookers wince as i choose to spend another night alone, 

my predecessors laugh as i sip red wine with old gods while they discuss the deities nonsense. 

you know?

the fourth monologue passes through my brain except i dont have anyone to fucking perform it for. 

the boy thats talking to me isnt there.

he is but i dont think he'll ever fully be. 

he wouldnt get the monologue. 

i bet the boy i stock shelves with would, 

he isnt carnally inclined, nor am i. 

i love him in a very simple way. 

but thats beside the point, 

once upon a time i made my mattress sentient 

its thread and worn spooked whoever pretended i was okay. 

its thread and worn is gone now because it was thrown out.

i feel so nauseus when they ask me to give myself away. 

i wont i will not i can not. 

sure, i'll start taking them again. 

poetpoempoetryprosetrue storyfictionnon fictionshort story

◄ big girls don't cry except when it is absolutely not the right time to do so.

hear it now! ►

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