Things are not okay. It’s the end of the fucking world and I don’t have your hand to hold. It’s my fault, I’ll live with that. I sleep in a tent with 3 to 4 others sometimes. I sleep at the edge of where the train collides with the skyline and when the ground rumbles and the whistle blows I think of you, I think of you every night. When the bunnies run and my belly hurts I shrink into myself and pretend I’m not outside in the cold and instead I’m in your bed. I’m on your comforter, I’m in your head.

I miss you, stupid.