“This week is stupid. Dumb, stupid, fucked and regrettable. Fuck, we won’t remember the unkind parts. The hate and the soberness. The ink is still fresh and we’re sliding our faces across the page. We will wear the unhappiness where we can’t read it. Everyone else will see and know. But we, we will live like only smiles and spilt drinks cover us. A game won and a drink drunk. I love you all. We cannot survive like this but that’s never been the point. We had a week of it, of it all. Undefinable and indiscernible. We hate it. And it’s gone.”

A part of a story I wrote when I was 17. I’m going through all my own writings, and I think I’m going to self-publish a zine of poems, short stories and vignettes in the next few months.