gina

sweet sixteen never tasted so sour and a cigarette is a good meal if you're craving an empty stomach. dreams come in take-out food cartons, with every ounce of silence gulped down like whisky. the empty bottles litter the floor and line the invisible walls between me and the boy. reruns rewind television kills time television kills conversation. my birthday flowers are turning to wallpaper, starched by the sunlight: dizzy acrylic green & mustard seed yellow. the clock still maintains its sticky heartbeat and the boy still speaks without sound and the girl inhales nicotine like pure love.