A confession of reciprocated love carried around for months in a back pocket. Smashed into a flattened curl, with dog-eared corners. The entire narrative teetering between tragedy and farce. Confessions of requited love tasting of green-pixel binary code. Heartstrings snagged on old porcelain fixtures. The active guilt of disingenuousness. Years of malicious, subconscious practice in anxiety-sculpting. Emotional vicissitude carefully wrung from a script. Hot chocolate and blonde sundae's on a Sunday night lose their appeal after a while.

11:26 a.m. - 2018-06-18