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i’m still just sad. some weird part of me hoped he would text me tonight. i still want to feel wanted, feel chosen - even in this shitty situation.

instead i’m in bed with a cold press on my face because all the alcohol i’ve drunk this week has inflamed my rosacea.

i would rather be high with you, feeling the smoke warm and fill my lungs, your arm around my waist, your lips on my skin, instead of here alone.