24 degrees

the humid air snuggles up close to me. and stays there. and my blood starts to come to a boil as i look into your eyes, because i hate you even more than i hate myself tonight. furious tears, dripping off my chin one. at. a. time.

and you know, they say the skies are rife with disease. say it’s never going back to normal. not completely. and some days, i can’t help but wonder. if this step could be the butterfly that causes the tsunami. if this is going to be the last time you get to see me…

they say i’m withering. like a parched august flower. and you know, maybe it’s time to empty out the vase. rather than just changing the water.

they say i am parched soil after a long, hot wildfire. crumbling under the slightest pressure. 

and the steam seeps into my lungs, air too thick to breathe. and little girl, is this too much for you?

because if this is enough to scare you… then you haven’t seen anything.

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