proxima centauri

december tastes like frost on my lips; trench coats and dark nights. and i want to write something beautiful in its image. i want to shake up the goddamn sky. i want to make you look me in the eye, and listen. watch the whole world stop in its tracks, even if only for a minute.

i don’t want to cower in fear anymore; i want to live, i want to breathe, i want to run with the wind. i want earth-shattering romances, and a spare twenty bucks. but i guess it’s easier said than done, isn’t it?

and i’m running out of time. but i made a promise. so i’ll gulp down the poison, stay up until 2am, whatever it takes. i’ll make it work, i swear. i’ll light a fire in my belly. smile and pose, file my cheekbones to butter knives, and write, and write, and write, until the ocean is dry. until my throat creaks, every time i speak. until the aliens come for the last of us–with their shiney spacesuits, and their dystopian plans.

but i doubt the real aliens even give a damn. i bet they’re living it up on proxima centauri, i bet they see in all the colours i don’t know. i bet they’re confident, and beautiful. bet their instragram feeds are all colour coordinated, bet they know how to pose.

bet they tell me to just knock it off. to live in the moment, and stop stressing this shit. but it’s harder than it looks, isn’t it?

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