When I’m say I’m getting old, don’t look at the fine lines under my eyes or the grey hairs growing at my temples. That old I can take because it means I’m alive. If you look inside and my soul is hollow, it is shadow and smoke and I can’t find a girl who was ever young.. When I stare at a broken reflection in a perfect mirror and the smile trying to fool me looks so fucking real, that I can’t even count the layers of bullshit I stacked over it all these years.
And I’m no longer scared of pain. Lately it seems pain is scared of me and it’s hiding. I am searching for it like an old friend to fill this emptiness, to give me an old, cold, comforting thing to feel when numbness buries me alive…
Jackie Lowe’s 