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diary of the socially inept
my branches don't extend so far
running.
running through the woods, running til my little chest collapses.
walking
to a house that smells of rodents and cigarettes. and i know what's coming, and i know what's coming, and i know that im ignorant to the fact that ice continues to fall and a greasy-haired boy glides by outside a friend's friend's house. the anxiety melts the shoe-strings to my hands.
But take my hand, dear, well who said this wasn't such fun? Just take my hand, dear.
so we run "for the fun of it," but, one member short, we hide beneath the muck and leaves; i become an insect once more.





 
 
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