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It’s the kind of ache that doesn’t settle anywhere, just floats under your skin, making you itch.
she’s the kind of girl who gets bored if people don’t look at her, so she creates emergencies.
My reflection feels like a stranger who keeps asking for things I can’t give.
When the doors open, I step into a hallway full of other girls, all of them thin and glowing and tall, all of them wearing that same look I see in my mirror: desperate but trying to hide it.
but she says it like its poetry, like he was lost to it, not swallowed whole.
Men like him are wallpaper, always there, always leering, always thinking they have a right to the space I take up.
people hadn’t decided my grief was a commodity worth investing in.
I love the fame, even if it means it’s because I’m the girl who is surrounded by death.
“Because the man in my mouth told me to.”
Fame is a fire, and I want to burn with it until there’s nothing left.
We all rot eventually. We all fall apart. Why should I feel bad about trading blood for glory?
I close my eyes. I smile. I am famous. Alexa Valentine will be famous after this.
