my illusions are misdiagnosed as reality. tell me im good but whats underneath? lessons that never fully sank in, trauma i didnt attempt to speak about, repressed memories found in body bags. flowers bloom on the surface of my skin and they are filled with rot. absorbing my blood, relying on photosynthesis when i hide from the sun. fear is home, anger is comforting. i enjoy the miserable things in life. i built myself a box with indestructible walls decorated in some kind of sad homage to the girl i killed inside my own head. i used to live life with a sort of ferocious curiosity. now i sit in uncomfortable rooms waiting for air conditioning that wont turn on and highs that never let me come down.