Above the small table above Lizzy's kitchen hangs a lamp. it hovers over the chairs like Damocles sword. it's light casting strange shadows over bleary faces, the fridge coughs and splutters an odd counter part to our voices as we wispier our dawn duologue. when did i become an oracle? who says i know shit about life? Sam says i need to learn to take risks, I say he needs to grow up. i badger her to tell someone, anyone, but especially him. yet all the while i know i won't practice what i preach. it's one thing to tell someone to take the reigns of their life and another to do it yourself, my coward heart balks at the thought.
"she makes me want to be better" they say
and i smile indulgently, i know that feeling when you want to sparkle and shine on the off chance you catch their eye, where you're scared to let the conversation flounder lest they get bored and turn away
sometimes i want to be better but mostly i want to be
theirs.
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