i have an idea...that you are not real...
Molly made pies in the summer when she found that she had all the time in the world. She wrote poetry in the backroom of her house where she could smoke, and drink thru the night pounding away on her typewriter and the ink stained her lips when she chewed her pens in half. The door never opened until nine a.m. when she would emerge with her hair tied up in a ponytail and the gray bags beneath her eyes. She looked beautiful in any light, at any hour. On Saturdays she would go to the bar and hustle drunkards in pool. She always smiled to herself. She had red hair. She was an angel.
Somedays, she would wonder.
Somedays, she would think her life mattered.
Until she ended up back in the dark room. There was a desk. She scrawled notes, names, numbers, and quotes into the oak. She unplugged her phone. The poems came quicker in the night. On rare occasions when she was in mid-sentence she would begin to fall asleep. She would do cocaine to numb the noises and silence the hurt.
Molly made words leap from the paper and dance for hours on the tip of your eyelids. She had a voice that tasted like water, and a portrait of Rimbaud hanging above her bed. When we made love, I couldn't close my eyes. She loved Joy Division. She wrote her suicide songs in lipstick on her bathroom mirror. She had no mirror that she wouldn't smash.
I used to run my hands thru her hair. It made her shiver.
She used to bite my bottom lip when we kissed. It made me fall in love.
I woke up on Thursday and realized there were no perfect days. She was imagination. She was a pixie who hugged me in the wind. There was no Molly. There were shreds of poems that made me believe. I couldn't look into the trashcans without crying.
She stood beside me, and whispered.
Molly made pies in the summer when she found that she had all the time in the world. She wrote poetry in the backroom of her house where she could smoke, and drink thru the night pounding away on her typewriter and the ink stained her lips when she chewed her pens in half. The door never opened until nine a.m. when she would emerge with her hair tied up in a ponytail and the gray bags beneath her eyes. She looked beautiful in any light, at any hour. On Saturdays she would go to the bar and hustle drunkards in pool. She always smiled to herself. She had red hair. She was an angel.
Somedays, she would wonder.
Somedays, she would think her life mattered.
Until she ended up back in the dark room. There was a desk. She scrawled notes, names, numbers, and quotes into the oak. She unplugged her phone. The poems came quicker in the night. On rare occasions when she was in mid-sentence she would begin to fall asleep. She would do cocaine to numb the noises and silence the hurt.
Molly made words leap from the paper and dance for hours on the tip of your eyelids. She had a voice that tasted like water, and a portrait of Rimbaud hanging above her bed. When we made love, I couldn't close my eyes. She loved Joy Division. She wrote her suicide songs in lipstick on her bathroom mirror. She had no mirror that she wouldn't smash.
I used to run my hands thru her hair. It made her shiver.
She used to bite my bottom lip when we kissed. It made me fall in love.
I woke up on Thursday and realized there were no perfect days. She was imagination. She was a pixie who hugged me in the wind. There was no Molly. There were shreds of poems that made me believe. I couldn't look into the trashcans without crying.
She stood beside me, and whispered.
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just to spice things up a bit