dinosaurs and shooting stars

nothing is forever. dinosaurs and shooting stars are proof of this.

she sat nearly falling off her bed, her head weary and weighted. the black truth of her hair sprouting out, pushing the bleached white away from her scalp. she looked up at the melancholy boy framed by her overstuffed closet, its chaotic brightness offsetting the sharp shadows of his poetic face. he seemed to be attempting an escape into the warmth of her sweaters. he backed further away and stumbled over her careless pile of unworn shoes. she picked at her cuticles, not out of annoyance or nervousness, but out of pure and meaningful habit. she was unaware that as a child it was the one sound she could count on hearing from her father. the steady pick-pick of fingernail on hardened skin. she looked at her fingers pink with pain, hot with blood pulsing to escape. she couldn't stop picking, would keep on even as she felt the wetness of blood victorious.

"it's you," she said, "not me. shit! I mean..."

insert too much space until the next word.

whether we intend to or not, one way or another, we always say what we mean.