“December”

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. But it’s cool. It’s cool. It has to be. This month I didn’t cry at all. Who am I kidding? Well, not in public at least. This month I learnt how to be everyone’s dream girl. Who do you want tonight, baby? Do you want bad girl; girl with fire on her tongue and the ashes of her old lovers on her cheeks? Or do you need good girl; girl who tastes like cotton candy and blushes like a rose garden when you whisper god only knows what in her ear. This month I learn how to be okay with being someone else. I slip out of my skin and into someone else’s so easily. This month I learn to be cool, cool, cool.

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. And i’ve got a hell of a seat to watch this grand finale. It feels like I’m running out of time. Or words. Or both. This year’s been so full of loss and chaos. I walked into this year thinking I’d get through it without a scratch, but here I am. Bruised and exhausted. But I’m still dancing to the love songs playing on the radio. Still swinging and twirling. Still alive. and I guess that has to count for something.

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. Or like being chased for miles only to find yourself in a dead end street. But I’m just being dramatic. You say morbid, but I suppose they’re both the same anyway. The sky looks like it’s about to drop down. I wonder if the stars will come down too. I want to kiss them. I want to unravel them and find out what makes them glow. I want to know what the sparks look like. 

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. I mean, this month’s got fangs, you know? And air so cold it’ll make your head spin. Can’t possibly see anything through the fog. I have absolutely no idea what’s coming. But as long as I’ve got the moon with me, I think I’ll be just fine.

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. And I want to call you. But I don’t. I want to call and say, “I deleted all the messages. Each and everyone one of them. The pictures, too. It’s funny because I didn’t feel anything. I don’t know, it’s a strange feeling, I guess. And I’ve stopped writing you love poems. Maybe it’s odd because when we were in love I wrote about the love and flowers blooming and the sun. And when we we fell apart, I wrote about heartbreak and ache. But what now? What can I write when I don’t feel a thing?” 

It’s just the end of a year but it feels like the end of the world. And you know me. And how much I love lists. This month I make too many. One for all the things I can do next year. One for all the things I lost this year. And one for who stays and who goes. You make both.

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