there’s a special place in hell for people who don’t close your door when they leave the room when your door was originally closed
(via porcelain-girls)
Trying to think of them before they left the house
Looking into the mirror
evaluating at their skin
figuring out what angles
their blemish can be seen
(can anyone ever really notice?)
calculating the effects of their previous meal on their bodies
channeling the direction of their hair
checking for signs of growing older
I imagine a bitter sweet sigh
sounding like a guess
“that will have to do”
it’s a kind of a decision
to have love