brightbloomers
See I laugh at your jokes and I think your music taste's rad.
I confess to myself that I like your style, I really do, and I think you're pretty with that middle parting.
But for some reason whenever you're around, you just make me feel like shit.
Or rather when you're around me, around other people.
I think that's how it works.
I don't know if we're friends or enemies anymore.
It wasn't an actual knife in my back but the pain didn't hurt any less.
It's dark and hollow-looking. Three eyes. Three cold, glistening eyes as it caws above me. I want to walk. I can walk in this place, I can feel the mud shifting under my boots. I reach out for the crow with such bony fingers, and I want to grab it and break its stupid little neck so it will stop cawing, but suddenly I'm back at the top of the tower.
I'm falling again. Mother is there.
"Stop climbing, Bran," she says.
I'm falling, though.