Blog Ten.

and the sad fagboy brothers of sisters i/ve known take photos of their secret loves and leave em laying around and the secret loves all look beautiful + romantic like they should and they never know that neither i nor the boy behind the camera lens can see the beauty they/re trying to hide, the kind of beauty that sneaks out through eyes like bedroom windows in summernights to go searching past streetlights and asphalt still warm from the day like lovers bodies, to go searching for love or mystery or a sad and lonely fuck, that never comes, never arrives, never shows, instead to contemplate their lovers radiant eyes and praying yet knowing full well the impossibility, and full knowing yet ignoring the future loves that might yet save them from themselves or early death, tragic by riversides of skipped rocks and wishful kisses that never came, never showed, never arrived, just another polaroid day scarred by unjustified desire in a present too contemporary for now, and too hazy to be real, and instead returning home through the front door and slamming it hard to wake parents unaware of secret lovers or internal struggle.