Q:I am living off borrowed words and rewinded memories. The days crackle and break, like moth eaten pages crumbling in my hand. I am spilling out my love in ink to boys who don't understand or who don't exist. If there was a bridge to Neverland, I would cross it. But instead I am existing off secondhand hope that I find littered in alleyways, growing like weeds in between daisies or buried in the lost and found. The days grow longer. The stars keep shining brighter.
More great stuff from my anon submitter. I hope you don’t mind that I am trying to think of who your writing sounds like. I am curious as to who you are.