"Do you do drugs?” is a rhetorical question to me. I snorted a line to connect the answer to my eyes, so, the drip could tell my throat to dilate their minds and swallow the idea that everyone is ******* blind. And maybe they are, ****, i sure as hell don’t feel around with a walking stick. But i do tap my glasses against hard surfaces, keeping a sharp grasp on the shards of glass i’ve been smashing’ in hopes the reflection will stop masking the reason i keep overreacting and stashing pills in my abdomen. They will understand when i vanish completely why it’s called fasting. My religion isn’t of the church, but of the body and the mind. That's constantly runs off the time i spend draining out the plugged up emotions and sunken down guts I’ve puked up because i fear of dying unknown. i haven’t lived out my 20′s, ****. I guess i’m a clone for devoting time towards the public, who see me as another subject who’s cocky as **** and hates themselves whenever alone. Even my parents surpass the overlapping content filled with clues hidden in the context, I guess my words aren’t imperative enough for a toxic thrown. I’m hazardous waste, overdose prone.