pastimes

It is seriously not my fault, this thing. I only have one CD left, and when I put it in, I only listen to 2 of the songs.
I drive to work before it is light, and play the song on repeat. I pop the CD out, and the song is on the radio, and it makes my stomach hurt more each time.
I don't eat, I don't sleep.
I don't sleep.


I could next become a skinny skeleton, and you could pack me up in your cupboard and say, "Well, she never got gutsy, or free," but I hope I get free.

I hope for years to write love letters, in between temper tantrums, and night runs, and painful radio hits, and black and white photos that I didn't plan to come across.

I hope to build bridges, but it seriously not my fault.
This thing.