Don’t use the night light of your iPhone as rollerblades in the darkness that can’t rival the pitch blackness of your raging soul.
Don’t bathe in the visions of how you can recklessly plan your exit as if you’re so sure that the hours ahead will host a buffet of emotions, that nobody wants to feast on, after you.
Don’t stalk the heiress and her ambiguously-appealing hubby as they boomerang against your screen with shots of bubbly, and the sereneness of another European enclave that you can’t pronounce without choking.
Don’t renew the stalking of the highly influential influencer who is using your transcript to reap the rewards that could’ve been yours if only you had been conceived in the early winter of 1984.
Don’t allow the bitterness to dry up the pores of vulnerability that should tame you into the state of acceptance when it comes to the helplessness and fear of what is happening, and what will happen if you continue to wither.
Don’t assume that just because you’ve survived being your own therapist for all these years, you can seamlessly continue the tradition of underestimating just how bad things can get, and the potential for what will be tragically unrecoverable.
Don’t rely on Pandora to soothe the sensitive areas in case that song comes up and you…
