i carry people, places, old versions of myself, and memories that should have faded by now. some of them end up here.

quick notes at the bar

one reason. that's all they need to cut me down, and they'll do it without blinking. me? i've got twenty thousand, twenty thousand, reasons to burn it all to the ground, and yet here i am, quietly sitting in that corner of the bar,

after the last door closes

solitude becomes a habit. then a home. then a coffin. love will rot in my hands if i touch it too long. some days i feel like i'm unraveling into something monstrous, like if i keep staring, something inside me will snap and never return. i want to