I hope it burns the pit of your stomach to read this. yes, this is angst. and I’m happy for you.
waking up under the machine. the lights peel back your skin. dark is cold on your bones when you’re alone and won’t be stoned off of whatever for a while now. rolling through the seconds like a train with no coal.
my lack of sanity will bring death, gently, to me and I’m counting the fucking days.
Years of going dark. Muses of black. hating life. Why the long face? In weary strife of yesterday’s ordeal.