June 23, 2020
The only grip I maintain on my reality – this. Everything else a fight. The habit of women distracts me. My life isn’t static, because I know it passes. Things change around me. Like a wraith, a haunting, others sense my presence (I disturb or annoy); but they move or leave, and I remain in the decaying house I hate.
F. only wants her mom on the weekends. My presence agitates her.
“We’re best friends.”
The girl who isn’t going to die doesn’t know how to respond.
