I don't want to be worshipped, nor your saviour. I am not the place you will find God. Yet when you touch me you shall be cleansed, purged. Filled with Promethean fire from the burning poppy swaddled in silk and sandpaper.
the serial monogamist constantly looking for your next hit whether it be meeting a new face, a rollie an argument instant gratification is your currency and You worry that you're a fraud I don't know if i'm the only one who knows
I want to believe in something, anything more than this yet my mind overrides my heart and dysphoria is part of the daily routine a profound state of dissatisfaction no longer caring is harder and i feel it
There’s a strange intensity behind those eyes, it’s unnerving, deadpan. Especially squaline. Yet there’s no glass separating us and we’ve both paid our fees, I’ve come to the exhibit to look at the fish but the shark's staring right back at me.
i cannot tell if i fight my urges, do i do this on purpose apathetic to my needs is sleep an urge or a need is *** an urge or a need eating, writing, talking there is no between indulgence or survival too little or too much and it's true that angst is the hardest emotion to conceal it is able to physically manifest itself no matter how hard you try