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The lights outside flicker, the city groaning with its own dreams, and for a moment, I think maybe this could be everything. But only for a moment.
My reflection feels like a stranger who keeps asking for things I can’t give.
Men like him are wallpaper, always there, always leering, always thinking they have a right to the space I take up.
I feel like I’ve taken up space and left a mark, like I’m something that won’t disappear the second the door closes behind me.
We all rot eventually. We all fall apart. Why should I feel bad about trading blood for glory?
