death’s hand fits so perfectly in my palm. no wonder my mind is attacking me.
his smile is so perfect. crooked and smug, but perfect for him.
i am not crazy. i am not crazy. i am not crazy. i am not crazy. i am not crazy. i am not crazy. i am not crazy. i am not crazy. i am not crazy. i am not crazy.
i feel so loved for a mere second, then it is ripped away by fake niceties. i only wish that the prophecy could be rewritten so that a single soul is obsessed with mine.
as the dust settles, all i see is a mutilated version of who i used to be.
i feel like myself again. i don’t know if i should be proud or terrified.
i hate big houses. with their empty space. i only have sadness to fill it.
i love our mundane conversations more than i hav ever loved any boy. that’s how i know we are something true.