they say that writers die alone.
but there are a few of us left that want to find that thinker.
that other that pushes us because they spend their time walking down dirty alleys alone with a half lit cigarette in their left hand.
that is the other who gets caught staring into the lamplight.
and shivers in the rain.
that is the other.
instead we look for brilliantly redesigned boob jobs.
and cover our imperfections with foundation made of dirt.
we look for the things in others that have been redesigned to mask our flaws.
our feelings are covered with linen suits and silver watches.
and we call this good.
because Louis Vitton told it was. as well as blonde actresses with personalities in their anorexia.
and we called this beautiful.
I don't want that.
I don't want the fakeness.
What I remember is the long nights laying awake. Questioning what happened yesterday.
Pretending that the day began when we laid our heads on our pillows.
I remember the freedom.
I wouldn't mind that again.
and the space to walk down crowded streets.
with headphones in. and my mind full of questions.
you can leave your pretentious ideas to the movies.
i want someone who has been alone.
and it ached.
and you stared out of windows.
and took lonely walks.
and ate by yourself.
and knew what it meant to be alone.
because having someone is that much sweeter.