three old women. one younger than the others.
i literally pouted on the walk back. don’t need to know why. a story told a thousand times. of ironies and a severed heart.
love is emotional terrorism, and valentine’s day celebrates terror. the fireworks you see are visual euphemisms for buildings and planes exploding. it’s no coincidence flowers are left for the dead.
i was holding back tears, again literally, my god this is all too much of a faggotry.
it’s just me and my sandwich tonight. i take comfort in subway, my readings, and the fact that i’m learning a new language.
but i don’t want to be a cold successful person. i want to be young and full of love like now and have a nice life. sometimes i hate that fate has a better plan for me.
