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a bunch of bullsh*t written by a bullsh*t teenager with a bullsh*t hobby. tho it's not like I update that often
galaxies (and why the need for your presence dissolved with your brain cells when you ordered another glass of whisky)

the words in his mouth are stars

that fall

and you are drunk and twenty four and the world is not your friend and you are not his but you know you should be when he grabs at your hand, desperate, staring at you like he can't see the whisky glass in front of you that is still


half full.

you're unsure if what you're feeling can be categorized as 'guilt'. you don't know what good will come when if you listen to him, this little ten year old boy who still wants to see you as a figure to look up to.

"big sis, please, let's go home," he pleads

you jerk the hand he had taken in two of his to grab at the glass in front of you

"go away," you say, and the words are not stars when they fall from your lips but poison that oozes out


"I have no home"

he leaves with heartbreak and anger in his eyes, and you realize that no, you don't. you don't have a home.

not anymore.

so you drink a little more.

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