Maybe it’s at 3am with the lights on or 1pm in the orange gleeming sun. When I think about dying, it’s not after my brothers punch. It’s the moment between feeling everything and absolutely nothing at all.
I am eating clean, working every muscle, and still this part of me is oozing black. On Sunday my smile fades like the orange sun in November’s 6pms. Meeting my friends disappointment in me, and for dinner my godmothers dismay.
How many girls does it take to die to make you believe their emotions are valid? How many men does it take to fix a lightbulb without a fuse?