probably the end of things
It's never been so bad as it is now. It's never been so bad that the writing or the reading didn't help— plagued by potential depression and these little fucking flies that live in the soil of my favorite plant. I am at this fucking keyboard, pumping out poetry as dry as my skin since I forgot to moisturize, questioning why I even try, since I know an elevator ride is all that separates me from the bottle: certain happiness. My sturdy love. My respite from the itch and answer to all missed calls. I always wanted too much. It was my chief defect. Still is.














