It drags on like a five minute song with no melody to make it a little less antagonizing.
Like when your cigarette hits your throat a little too hard but you have more than half to suck down because potential can't be wasted, even if it's killing you.
Everyday feels fake, it's all just surface level.
But I guess when it really comes down to it, how much deeper can it get?
If I can already feel it crawling through my skin, eating away at every limb.
So I ache, in wretched ways.
Nothing feels the same and I guess I never expected it to get to this extent.
It's as though there is no identity left to me, as though I just say what others would like to hear.
Putting together each sentence like a puzzle for the viewing pleasure, not because I really mean it.
You'd never know how bad it hurts to not know yourself until you don't recognize the sound of your own thoughts.
Or until you feel like you're drowning in your own lungs, and your eyes have nothing behind their soft tone.
Until your brain becomes poison and so does your heart so you never know where to start.
It hurts to sit in silence while others wait for reactions, something I can't even give myself.
But maybe this is how it feels to grow, maybe I'm loosing parts I needed before but don't have a purpose anymore.
I hope I sprout like spring flowers not fall like autumn leaves, and I guess it's all up to me.
