Anything I touch or speak to will become the death of me and I’m unashamed of being your scapegoat, martyr, babe I’m here for the fame. Spoon it in because I’m the second cumming unafraid, this coverage will be the latest frame for the palest of sore flickering flames.
I wish I could get that adrenaline rush off of attempting to ruin someone’s life that doesn’t care enough to care about their own public perception.
Without the person you’re nothing from literal loss, with the person you’re nothing from subjective lowering.
I wish someone knew how much these songs mean to me, that when they play they become the air I breathe, that when I envision myself doing great things they're paid homage.
Offendedly the most offensive, exemplified offensively—revolving in a Voltairean era of and on my own.
It’s intriguing how the nights I am all set to sleep early my mind wanders toward the darkest of precipices and goes for the deepest dive into the abyss forever gazing into my being, begging for a chance to reveal itself. We’re all going to die down here. These are the nights I blood paint, the nights of possible dissociation leaving me sobbing in corners resembling a fetus unaborted, and you’re surprised? As if my lack of offense could come from being undamaged.
The only thing making it worth it is the only thing real.
& family is just betrayal with justifications.
& family is just betrayal with justifications.
No comments:
Post a Comment