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I spent most of my life living vicariously through celebrities, studying their lives in the hope that maybe some of that glitz and glamour would rub off on me.
His left nipple is pierced.
“Those taste like ass.” “Familiar with that, are we?”
I’m so sick of crying.
Up close, I can count the light freckles dusting her nose,
“I believe I’d like anything you did,”
“I got my first guitar when I was three,” he says after a moment of silence, and my brows furrow, but I don’t look up, not sure if he’d want me to. “It was this cheap little thing my mom bought, even though she didn’t know anything about instruments. Had a mahogany back, and nylon strings, and I loved it so much that I slept with it every night until I was seven.” Snorting, I shift, resituating my ass as it starts to go numb. “When I was three, my mom got really high, broke out the windows in our trailer because she thought people were after her, and ended up leaving me alone for two full days
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He kisses me like we have all the time in the world. Like this relationship wasn’t doomed at the start.
she’ll remain in the living room, looking into her wineglass, wondering how the red liquid keeps dwindling when she swears she hasn’t touched it.
“I think normal is boring. Abnormalities make life more interesting.”
Grief for the girl I could have been—should have been,
“Did he just tell the entire world that he’s in love with you?”
Even more, I need to tell her this shit in person. Need to look in her eyes when I admit that I’m fucking ridiculously gone for her,
Trash like her doesn’t deserve anything but to be taken out.”

