please. I am not the artist you think I am. The words, on the roof of my mouth.
you are such a haunting thing, under my false exterior. and i was amongst it. i'm scared, for the life of everyone, it seems. they can at least pretend, but i can't escape you when i sleep. i just want to lie down and never wake up.
how does life happen to us, really?
I end so many series with the starting of a new sentence. But fuck, so do you.
I now wish to be imparted from you. I'll never send that last letter, cunt.
...in all our hesitations, the bold state of being.
catchupcatchupcatchup
all things that make me want to kill myself
So convinced that God is no answer
never was and never will be
yet what is it within ourselves that we are lacking?
what love that we have not yet found is there to embrace?
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