I love tea but I've never actually drank it before;
Every time I make myself a cup I forget about it,
It goes cold before it's poured down the sink.
I wish it was like that with bad memories.
When I was younger and infinitely less distressed, my mum would warm me some milk to
Calm me down, now
Every night before I go to sleep I drink a piping hot mug of 'memory milk,'
Sprinkled with cinnamon
To enrage the fire,
But softened with a teaspoon of sugar to
Sweeten the burn.
I want to **** myself but I don't want to die-
I don't want to live the way I have to-
I guess milk could be replaced with bleach but then again
My soul is pale enough as it is.
I never know what to do,
Where to put myself,
Or even what to drink.