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?