Maybe its because I'm doing better, maybe it's because I'm utterly, and truly lying to myself.
Maybe it doesn't matter that things are better. It doesn't matter that people care about me- It doesn't stop me thinking of plunging a knife into my gut every time I pick one up. It doesn't stop me from wondering what the point of all this effort is? It's pointless, its just slowing my decent.
If I fall faster, will I be put out of my misery?
Maybe I'm sour and bitter and the worst of all mankind, but I look for the worst in things, and I try to fix them. I find reasons to change things and hurt those in the process because its not as I wanted it to be.
I am controlling.
Selfish
Hell, what can I say?
I'm a good ol' fashion romantic.
YOU ARE READING
poems and short stories
Randompreviously "fireworks reflected in your eyes" I don't feel like that fit the piece anymore, and I needed a change but I still want it to be taken seriously. My earlier work (earlier chapters) are worse please stick em out and read the good stuff ♡♡ ...
