The real me is a discarded book. A revolution without the rebels, a drink without the ethanol. Carbon dioxide fills my throat as I try to wash away my apathy. It’s the indifference that’s killing this world, nothing else. One day you’ll look at the mirror and see the very thing you hated not so long ago. It’s sad and inevitable. Maybe you’ll die happy, but chances are you won’t. I close my eyes and see you dancing, but all I want you to do is strip. Moaning is a good hobby. You saturate my thoughts past its limit. My brain’s broken, and there’s no way in hell I’m going to fix it.

You never notice me. I’ll do anything to keep it that way. All I have to give you are pretty words and stares of awe. No one appreciates that. At least try for us- nobody wants their heart to be broken by a stranger, but I think you did already. I’d love for you to cut into me, but my blood’s dirty and I’m afraid that it will contaminate your purity. All I know about love I read from the internet, so fuck I’m sorry if I got it wrong. The perfect place for you is a seedy bathroom in a club with a scenester up your ass. You’re not unique. Fuck, you’re not the prettiest. There were others before you, but you’re the one that seems to stick. I’m sorry, but you’re nothing special.

Come on. Fuck your girlfriends and suck other boys’ cocks. Everything’s old. There are no new stories, just rehashes of past bestsellers. Lather your skin with their worship. Rinse, repeat. The best part is the end. No one cries, even though it’s a tragedy. All that’s left is a hollow chest and an empty feeling. Tomorrow, it will start all over again.

Happy Thanksgiving, all.