Yours Truly, SaraAnd, this night, I lay facing the ceiling, my feet on my pillow and my head at the footboard. I don’t want to get over you. My hands grab onto the worn, snowflake-print comforter and my nails claw at the lint and fur that clung to it. I yawn, and as I do, my back arches toward the terribly painted-over patch of ceiling above my hips. I stopped myself, blushing, and hope you didn’t see me. Remembering you aren’t here, I put my hand over my rosy cheeks and bit under my nails for something that wasn’t there. Through my cracked, dry fingers, Trent Reznor eyes me and Fiona Apple puckers up like I do when I tease you. Hair dangling out of myYours Truly, Sara
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...are you hokaithere?
"I don't want to be a product of my environment. I want my environment to be a product of me."
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"Don't cry, Loz."
Good luck!
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-Disclaimer: MY ART HAS NO PRACTICAL VALUE WHATSOEVER!
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Me, a writer? I could never be such a thing.
I'm just a fool with words and digits.
Life is like photography.
We need the negatives to develop.
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