and as the beginning of december gently whispers its way through our fingers [ignorant of time and its mechanisms; cracked and ravaged skin hanging from dusty phalanges], the tamarind leaves yellow in slow clusters. skeletal branches weakly dance and surrender to the soil as they let their leaves fall in brilliant sunny snow drifts and i stand under, inferior and unimportant in this macrocosm, to catch whatever i can whilst a lump of nostalgia accumulates in my throat.
what do i have to narrate to you but a silly college girl’s life? of boys and tests and jokes that really aren’t funny. of friends that are gone and a life ensconced with chaos theories that i constantly go over. i am no poet. i am no warrior. im the speck in this universe that’s erasing itself with an Apsara Non Dust eraser.
how many times must i think, ‘put a gun to my head, put a gun to my head’?
these thoughts are not healthy. i suggest you stop reading them.