you sit at your desk girl, surrounded by the pictures drawn by those who now shun you as a liar and let the smell of weed from the first floor edge your nerves even if you are not the one who is high anymore because though you can find weed, the money for it is lacking without sufficient work (how much do you think about those pills every day, girl?)

next to your hemp lotion and your foundations of education textbooks sits the picture of three girls on swings at a park that you've spent countless hours in, atop a picture of your hippie friend and a childhood image of your father hugging you (your goal is nothing more than to make that father proud)

you phone lights up another missed call, you’re afraid to check because that sinking in your gut feeling is never a comfort and to get your mind off the stress you open up that Microsoft word document with that story you've been working on, reading it over to check for spelling and grammatical errors
cause the hope for the distant future is the only thing you grasp now, it’s the only thing that keeps you from tears anymore

your told you’re lucky (well you don’t feel lucky) because as your surrounded by those friends you've made who make you feel vulgar and ineloquent; even if you know it's not their true intention, your eyes tear up and your throat clenches and you sob, loud and hard, head falling to the fake wood as the salt falls on those open wounds

and a part of you wishes to go back four years ago, when you were blissfully alone, high on pills every day so you felt numb and mindless and totally beautiful...

I want to tell you goodbye but it’s too late for that.