It's late.
We are not awake
and I smashed my phone.
I am learning how to be alone.
Resoundingly unpretty girl stares back at me
and I become what everyone's harboring from.
And is it your fault?
No, I think it's my fault.
We digress.
You're inhaling smoke, emotionless,
somewhere on a map,
unaware that I am falling flat.
And you will hurt me.
And I deserve it.
It's late.
You are not awake
and it's nothing.
I want you so bad it's devouring me
and I think I love you,
but you'll never find out.