Tuesday, March 19, 2013

Stay away from the girl who spends her nights alone,

or else you’ll wake up to your phone ringing at four o’clock in the morning and find yourself holding back her long, matted hair exactly nineteen minutes later

while she heaves into the nearest wastebasket.

The air will become heavy with the smell of red wine and poetry and unspoken loneliness and when all her secrets have been spilled, she’ll turn around, eyes averted, wiping her mouth,

and she will curve like a comma around the doorframe, a break between the story told by senior portraits and diplomas hung on the walls.

The trail of letters still dripping off her chin spell out

S’il vous plait aidez-moi

but you slept through french class in highschool and won’t think much of it.

(That’s okay;

she won’t want you to)

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