Stomachaches for sinners

Christmas in New York feels very lonely. The sun always sets early and the amount of wind just pisses me off. each piece of sweets i eat makes my cavities feel like they're about to claw their way through my teeth through my jaw and all the way into my skull. I'm tired of complaining. I'm tired of goodbyes. Memories seep through passerbyers on the train. I'll stay a few extra stops just to feel like you. The smell of cigarettes still remind me of that terrible time and I want to go back. I still say kind of like /kend of/ because of my friend in forth grade who never pronounced it right. I chew on the erasers of my pencils and hold them tight because the writing in my journals is the closest thing you'll get to the truth. I hide my writing behind empty post-it notes and drawings of his face. Anything I print on paper can and will be held against me so don't dust the pages for finger prints. Each trace and stroke of the page starting to feel more and more like you guiding the pen to paper. The ache starts to claw its way out of my mind into my mouth. It always feels like I'm stuck in the past nowadays. Like im a buffering video thats stuck rewinding the same segment over and over. I spend my time stealing bits of pieces of cleverly contrived song lyrics and pieces of literature till I feel whole again. I'm sorry that I never text back. How distant I seem at times and the repeated "are you sad? You look depressed" two more years later I'm back in the same place. It almost took one missed message to loose her. Girls with dead eyes and mean mothers. We haven't talked in years so I don't think you remember me but I hadn't put my phone on silent since that night till two years after. Hold me like im falling apart. Tear me open and trace your fingertips on the letters etched into each and every one of my ribs. I'll probably die a cliché.

-Rory