you miss childhood so much you try dressing like you would if you were seven again. sneakers and frilly socks. big t-shirts and messy hair, because you’ve stopped caring about perfect hair. you don’t mind getting your knees dirty or scabs on your shins. those pains don’t make you flinch. those pains don’t talk to you at night. those pains don’t hurt like the hurt you’ve really felt. the type of hurt that can’t be pin pointed or fixed with copious amounts of Neosporin. you don’t worry about how you’ll feel in the morning until the morning comes. you bite the skin off the tips of your fingers like your aiming for the bone. because the stress and pain hits you bone deep. bone deep. its almost romantic sounding. but isn’t being so broken such a romantic thing anymore? sad music doesn’t even phase you. its all you know. instrumentals lined with tiny violins and crying cellos. you lay back in the grass and close your eyes. you try forgetting about the city surrounding you. the heat rises from the pavement and grips your lungs like my hands grip the small of your neck. the sun beats down on you like you owe it money. but you don’t sweat. this is the small stuff. ice coffee and a bagel with cream cheese. start your day happy. fall apart at the end. repeat. things get better. then they get worse. three months of total bliss for three months of total shit. thats the way life works right? it always gets better though. be still.