originally posted on cohost (rip)

you don’t exist, and that makes it ok to tell you anything.

you know i’ll be sitting in the back seat of my mom’s car, staring at the back of her head, as you dance across the street outside the tinted glass windows. it’ll be raining, but it wouldn’t bother you. we’re both bored—and mom’s a bit stressed, and we’re just filling the empty space of time pulled open between this tension.

i don’t know how to dance, but you do.