I’m covered in your hair and I still smell like you which doesn’t quite make sense but not a lot is making sense and I had a headache from the beer you brought because it always gives me headaches. 

There’s also that taste of cigarettes and a cough that has become a recurring trend but I don’t mind not even the least bit.

I’m stuck in the same loop of thought that was before but deeper now, reaching different heights, making me nauseous but I keep going, down and down and down and down. 

Going down. 

You make yourself seem so rough, so rough, covered in striations that are covered in striations old with fresh, about boys which is the worst. 

You smile so much I don’t think you realize how much you smile.

You think you’re a broken doll. 

I think you’re alright.

Maybe you are a broken doll. 

I think you’re all right.