every single day you feel worse and worse, and why and how and you ask yourself eighteen questions nonstop until your lungs collapse under the weight of so many stars. i walked home and stepped on the road while the wind spun me round and i fell and i died. how i wish you could have been there; it was excellent. i've fallen and i can't get up. you're so cute when you're lying on your side. you're so cute when you're watching me die. you're so cute when you write me these pointless poems. i hate them. hit after hit after hit and you still can't come up with anything worthwhile. why do you even bother? books. letters. because nothing is real. you laughed for real once. i remembered the times you cried on my shoulder and promised to never do it again. obviously. it's unclear to me how these things come up in your sick mind. you see things so clearly. so clearly. hearts. swell and burst. it's the formula. you're cured. i wish. too late. you make my heart bleed rainbows. and when the song ends, you know it's because you scratched the record i made you. the one you didn't want in the first place. waste of space. waste of time. waste of life. excruciatingly boring, but i can stand it. for now. two days. two days left to work with. fix it. fix me. fix everything. i'm so wrong. so disproportional. it's a miracle how i even exist. silence. you've fixed my black and white world to the brightest shades of red. honestly. it's almost time to be.


you?