O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

she was like liquid fire
everything she touched would turn to ash
and she touched me, dear god
her hands were warm like summer
she smelled like cinnamon and
betrayal

it was a bright sunday afternoon
I had just bought flowers
for her to kiss
her breath was decaying them
the fire, burnt them into nothing but
a pile of red and purple ash;
a lot like my heart

her hair smelled like *** and
sweat; I lean in closer
but I was harmfully ignorant
and didn't see the signs
of my lover
slowly turning over
for another

I'm going to throw up I'm going to faint I'm going to hit the floor and let the blood pound pound pound in my head like a ******* drum like the one that our good friend Chris plays.
And I'm going to cry and I'm going to scream and I'm going to tear out my skin and my eyes will burn red like a sunrise like the sunrise we watched that morning when I gave you everything.
I'm going to hit the wall with my fists and yell and yell until my throat is raw and "why did I fall so ******* deep oh my gosh HOW WAS I SO STUPID SO. *******. Stupid."
I can't even type because my hands are shaking and my head is pounding and my chest is heaving and I'm going to throw up. I'm going to throw up.