i am broken and i want to be whole death is stained on my fingertips he loves the taste of my tears so i wash my face too often
why am i so broken there is no meaning in the cracks of my soul i fill my life with comfort and still death is always behind me
my throat is so swollen from pollen and panic attacks that ravage my body and rip out the seams in my story
i've lost myself and though i spent months seeking myself all i see in the mirror is unspent potential for depression to run me aground again
there is no wayfinder in my heart like yours, with your goals as a GPS and your achievements like landmarks in your mother's hallway
i write beginnings of sentences that now are litter on the floor of my mind because no words encompass my fear
and now endings are all i can think of but i don't want to be another face on the obituary, lost amid painful goodbye's and small typeface
disjointed thoughts, as always. i'm getting worse and worse as a writer as my apathy continues to grow. i just want a steaming bowl of pasta puttanesca and a couple seasons of pokemon to distract me from anxiety + this ******* cloud over my head.