i can't be who you are.

i just woke up for the last time at my lovely little yellow hillview house. my room is bare except for my (gutted) desk, bed, and computer. some of my landlord's furniture lines the walls-- all empty. i feel like every keyboard stroke shatters against the bare blue paint, echoes glaringly off the gold curtains (now limp and pulled taut across the windows), and weighs heavily on the floorboards that creak with my last footsteps across the knots and separating planks.

i won't lie-- i'll miss pieces of you. but for the pieces i won't, i've boxed up our memories, sealed them tightly in a circular, green box and left them for you in the corner. parcel them out yourself.

be warned: you'll find cobwebs of wide smiles, dusty lint that whispers late night conversations stuck on repeat, and many, many pictures of regret.

goodbye, you bastard. may you reign here as unhappy as you were when i first shook your hand and fell for the mask they all still ignorantly accept.