1995

it's a sick sense of envy. it's standing out in a crowd. it's clippers, buzzing, cropped hair; it's never short enough until you can feel the blood on your ears, until your hands, fingers, are numb.

you are me and i am you and we're no different from each other; you're not me, i'm not you, and we couldn't be further apart. it's all the same.

it's all the same, and the drugstore's closed.

it's half-passed twelve, and i'm trying not to think about it.