there are always so many questions.
there are so many answers, but they never line up.

your atmosphere is humid, sticky.
repugnant.

in the belly of the forest is where you roam, sometimes i hear you calling for me.
calling for me to come back.

you tell me you're dying, but you always were.

"help me. i need you."

an ego to feed, a mental disorder to ignore.
a natural born leader, an attention seeker.

you relished when we called you god, you bathed in the fact that we followed your orders.

and i hate admitting that i believed you for so long.
i hate admitting that i trusted you.

you're nothing but the mud you lie in.

sticky.

repugnant.