I got very drunk last night and I remember nothing but me crying to my grandmother saying he raped me. I slept in my own puke. I walked in yelling with liquor in hand saying I'm not drunk and this isn't liquor. Now it's the next day and I'm tired, drained, depressed, sick and lonely. I'll do it again as soon as I get paid and buy more liquor. My life has no meaning, at least no meaning I have found yet. Rain by Beatrice goldsmith is a good poem, and I know that because I'm reading new poetry to make myself feel less hopeless. That's all I can say right now.
ns3.21.168.253da2
arrow_back
11-14-18
more_vert
-
info_outline 資料
-
toc 目錄
-
share 分享
-
format_color_text 介面設置
-
exposure_plus_1 推薦
-
打賞
-
report_problem 檢舉
-
account_circle 登入
X
每次催更後，作者都會收到通知！
smartphone100 → 催更
×
寫下你喜歡這個故事的地方
然後按「加至主畫面」