𝙁𝙚𝙚𝙡𝙨 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝘾𝙧𝙮𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙡 || 𝙋𝙤𝙚𝙩𝙧𝙮

0.3

I'm comfortable but far-from-perfect. I struggle to rid my soul of sin and impurity though I close my eyes in the midst of the dark, pleading for a soul as clear as my name, crystal, as i repent under cold sheets and sweat. I feed into the thin or nonexistent boundaries between other planes of existence and reality. Barely in control of the things I'm doing, time fleets like thieves in the night. The crinkles on my face are plunging into my skull and my eyes are carrying heavy bags. Cloudy fluid smells and it's confining my rest. I don't know if I love it but in this smoke-filled room, I'm unable to see that I'm drowning in another's bed, dehydrated from the tears that never fall knowing that I'm far from perfect. Far from crystal. I am impurity.