I am a twelve year-old child. My history is not interesting.
I am looking so hard for the thing that contains me.
Smoking cigarettes to remember what youth feels like. My hair is soft and hangs over my face. I love the feeling that I am still growing.
We have left now and it is the middle of the night.
Spreadsheets and empty wine bottles; which do you believe in? Logged in forty minutes ago. Is this love? My fingers are not yellow and there are no consequences. Everyone wakes up in the morning, more or less. Office chairs remain in place. Hostilities do not mellow.
I am a twelve year-old child and you are my cold and shallow mother. My fault really. Hands I would like to break.
I remember when we thought of everything, when the world was the biggest place. I remember a torrent of water pouring out of the earth. Running its length, adhering to the current.
A decade passes.
Our hot bodies splayed out on the rocks.