the dull acid dripping off your tongue with every word you murmur - merely allusions of misery.
and that storm cloud you carry around with you on such a short leash - as if being struck by a single sun beam would burn you to the ground in an instant
but you are bright enough to put the stars out on the street and send the moon running.
and in a race with the galaxies, you could surely win if you wanted to.
true agony is watching you put out your own light.