🎼🎼🎼

“This life is like a razor
When it cuts, I bleed
But it’s in my hand and I’m doing it to me”

It had become a ritual for her, slipping through her window in the depths of the night. Provence was always careful, taking quiet steps to ensure that no one would hear her leave. She sometimes wondered if all the care was necessary. Would they even notice if she just disappeared? An answer that she fears would be no. 

Every time it amazed her how easy it was to slip into a crowd, to blend into the waves, just another body in a sea of people just as lost as she was. The benefit of living in a town where the main claim to fame was the local university: there were always new faces and she would always be forgotten.

Provence poured herself another drink, the deep bass of the music humming through her body, making her feel electrified. This had become the only place she felt sane; drink in her hand and the music pulsing through her veins.