You said that we’re just all pre-popped bubbles holding galaxies inside of us, and I shook my fist at you and said
"How is that possible? Because there’s no way that stars could live in something so broken."

I’m wondering if it’s possible to overdose on stress and raw lips because I know I would achieve death in an instant if it were.

If we’re not supposed to **** ourselves,
then tell me
why we make pills taste like candy
and why we try so hard to communicate every single feeling
yet avoid talking at the same time.

If we’re not supposed to die,
then tell me
why the only thing in this galaxy inside of me is a
black hole
vibrating a B flat
fifty two octaves too low for you to hear it.