Impulse.

Folding over me.

I'm hurting myself.

 

This life is too long.

I can promise you, it's hell.

 

Intoxicated by every breath.

Crying at every flaw.

 

Every choice I've ever made

comes back to prove me wrong.

 

I've lied.
To everyone including myself.

 

All that escapes me,

is all that is real.

 

Poetry is my only knowledge.

My mind aches for the fiction which lies.

 

Ahead of myself, there's dark, and I can't think straight,

for my fears blur my vision.

 

But you weren't left out.

Reviews

[Placenta]

I love your words, my bohemian doll. :)