I build apartments and I build houses. My heart beats against my chest telling me not to every time but I do it anyway because I am Gatsby’s greatest rival in hope.
But today I’m spent. Today I screwed my make-up and concealer and pretty lipstick because I want the world to know I’m fucking broke. I’m tired of making homes for people and I’m tired of wandering around empty neighborhoods at night. Today I’m not going to say I’m okay because I’m not. I’m not okay.
I’m building empty cities. Empty empty cities. And I think I figured out where I’ve been digging it all from because, God, darling, I’m pretty fucking empty, too.
saff, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I’m terrible. I’m sorry I’m rotten. I’m sorry that I’m so terribly rotten that you don’t even know if we’re best friends anymore. And to anyone I’ve ever talked to— I’m sorry I don’t know how to start relationships. I’m sorry I don’t know how to maintain them. I’m sorry I’m incompetent. I’m sorry I’m useless. I’m sorry I’m an analyzer and a planner and needy and stupid and sad.
And I’m sorry I’m fruitless. I’m sorry I don’t have anything to offer as a tree but bird-ens that don’t sing anything good at all. And I’m just sorry in general really. I’m sorry.