those golden hued pictures are lies. girls with oily hair and toothy grins and thin legs and maybe even a loose shirt. boys with cuffed jeans and immaculate facial hair patterns and desirable bodies. they make me believe there is a different type of world out there that i am yet to experience if i could only catch up to it. or slow down for it to catch me. it doesn’t matter. there isn’t anything past this dark apartment that i never feel like leaving. sure, there is warm sunlight — it isn’t much warmer than the water that beats on my back when i shower. trying to wash off the stench of failure. it permeates deeper than the top few layers of skin cells. even my bones reek of it. my soul reeks of it. imaginary dirt on my face that keeps me feeling like an orphan in a world that will never care. it might if i let it. the ocean could wash me clean, but only if it washed me away to freedom.