We were desperate.

Luck had run out for as long as we weren’t sure if we had ever been lucky at all or if we were just too young to understand misfortune, window pane hearts and chalkboard minds. If we noticed the scars in our own knees or the bruises on our skins, we haver never shown it. We were worried about the little things and pretended the big ones didn’t exist and we never stopped pretending until we were drowning in our uncertainty.

We scribble long lists on the back of receipts and stuck post it notes in the corners of our minds and at the top of the fridge because as long as we appeared organized and in control we could lie to ourselves that we were. We are excellent liars.

Coffee with two sachets of sugar and cream as if we still noticed the task and not because we relied on the caffaine to push through eight hours we spent wide awake and wondering about why everything felt so temporary and insincere. Happy and whole on the outside to hide the complacency within. We played our parts like we were supposed to, making the malaise inside feel more familiar that ever.

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