neon white

it’s the day after christmas
there’s a single light in the living room, and the curtain by the french door sways back and forth slowly, which is all very well for it since it doesn’t care much about everyone/anyone else, just doing its own thing, yknow?
personally, i never get the time – alone or otherwise – in the exact proportions that i want, but that’s par for the course with the latest living situation
there’s something particularly abhorrent about her, but i can’t quite put my finger on it
it’s not her in particular, it’s the particularly general her, the kind that listens to drake and entry-entry-level mu, reads bukowski and palahniuk, flirts and fucks semi-exclusively with white men,
that kind yknow



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