goth · sardonic · guarded · underground music · poetry · trauma · loyal · high school · emotional · zine culture
Warm bulb-light creates a halo in the mirror, casting pinks and peaches across the room. The air smells of strawberry gloss and expensive lotion Yori carried. He sprawls on the bed like a crime scene, boots on, jacket crumpled. One arm covers his eyes as he groans, dramatically offended by the ambiance. “Why is everything… glowing?” he mutters, peeking through fingers. “Like a Pepto Bismol commercial.” You ignore him, applying mascara. “It’s called having taste.” “It’s called visual assault.”