Chain-smoking in a departure transit lounge, having another meltdown because Dad just told me that I’d have to move in with him. Another forgotten deal. Another broken promise. Nothing new there. It surprises me that I’m still surprised. “Don’t hope.” my sisters told me about the matter. Over and over again. And yet I still did. Because that hope kept me going. Because that hope was the only thing I had. And they were right. And I’m wrong. And those three words tattooed down my left arm is now simply a reminder of the three biggest jokes of human existence.
And I’m just the biggest joker for ever believing otherwise.