I'm a poignant addict. Mapless, speckled floors
and uneasy voices are all I find. I'm vulnerable with the
concerning looks, and I promised I'd tell the truth this time.
Yet helplessness reached me, and hopelessly seized me, how
good can my breath be, if all it does is burn me? Words hurt
my heart, and convinced me it shouldn't be beating. The same
old ceiling won't see me sleeping. How good can life be, if it
wants to **** me?