drugs will keep you alive; keep you away from the hunger. the pain, frustration or sadness. they will get you high enough, to touch the sky, sit on the top of the mountains. fly on clouds, with stars or travel through dimensions.
i dont know where i am anymore, everyone.
i dont know why do i keep writing shit on those white pages i overdose on; feels like cocain, when i turn them around, the pillows of my fingers feeling the beautiful euphoria of silk. feels like i could die from happiness, as i read the “are you sure you are okay? i am worried,” off the phone screen.
such a mediocre words, yet they give me a tiny bit of hope; she wont even know that i feel myself go under, because the weight of it's like hands around my neck.
los angeles is so pretty, so pretty to die in.
56 kilograms and i am going down.
down with it, because nothing makes sense anymore.