The sun casts down onto the water that decorates the grass beneath me, a million tiny prisms littering the strands that intertwine like lovers. My feet are white, bleached by the winter of shoes and the endless torrent of rain. Gross. The bottoms of my jeans and the shoulders of my shirt are both wet, one by my wet bleach scented hair, and the other by nature’s great overnight gift. My watch doesn’t really fit. This shirt is ugly. My eyes are dry and my body washed out from crying all day over something that doesn’t matter at all but matters so much to me all at the same time. Music plays from a speaker behind me – something experimental by a teenager in their garage in the UK that my parents would complain about, but it’s just me, so I’ll listen to whatever I want. I take a cigarette from my pocket, one I bummed from my flatmate’s car, and light it with my goose lighter. A lighter with geese on it, how stupid. Maybe this is all stupid. Maybe it doesn’t really matter, maybe no one really cares at all. Maybe I shouldn’t care at all. For some reason I still do. My skin is dry and raw, that shower would have been at least 50 degrees, but I don’t care. It made my skin burn and my hair dye chase itself down the drain, but it made me feel a little bit better at least. I barely register that I’m crying again, my tears running down my dry cold face. I flick cigarette ash off into the grass, and it lands on a butterfly. I don’t care. They only live for two weeks to have sex and die anyway. The burning end of the cigarette gets too close to my fingers and it starts tasting like chemicals. There’s chemicals in the air and chemicals in my hair and chemicals in my body and chemicals in my lungs, so I don’t think about it too hard. The cigarette is done, so I’m going back to my room to cry.
I feel nothing and everything all at once.
