slam the goddamn door on us two nights ago.
At this point, crashing shit I don’t belong to?
I’ve got a rap sheet.
The whole way to his front door,
the wind’s biting and the sun is already high,
dragging over me,
spotlighting the anxiety I'm in denial about.
I should be at home,
curled up in my penthouse alone
with Mexican takeout,
watching reruns ofSeinfeld,
spending Thanksgiving with four neurotic people who don't evolve over nine seasons, feeling understood.
Instead, here I am, in a black sweater, black mini skirt, black stockings, black boots, dressed like sorrow, mourning the version of me who used to know better.
Jesus Christ, Allison.
What the fuck are you doing?
You’re dumb.
Turn around before it’s too late.
You don’t belong here.
You don’t want this.
(You do. Shut up.)
Back away slow. Get in the car.
Forget it ever happened.
And for the love of all things holy?—
Don’t. Fucking. Knock?—
I knock.
Fuck it.
‘Cause I don’t give a shit.
Being here doesn’t mean anything.
It's totally normal. I'm totally fine.
The door swings open to someone laughing.
