What Kind Of Sandwich Would You Be If You Were A Sandwich?

I put the specials on the board in chalk because I’ll change them tomorrow. I don’t make rules as it’s intending to fail. And forgiveness? Fucked. There is no such.

Perhaps it’s the worst which defines us, those moments, weeks, months, we don’t think we’ll emerge from. Leaving the house is enough of an ambition, honestly, I get that.

Energy’s impossible, as are the right words, and the character it’s crucial to play to some people’s faces. Like, spending years trying to impress, improve on someone’s expression they don’t think I see through. But it’s the tiniest indents of skin making emotions up, so I’m well aware what Jack thinks, what Harry does. I’ve seen it in their eyes this whole time.

And there is no more. The coconut’s scraped and drained, sucked, and I won’t hold my tongue.


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