Dead ends. Soft lips. Hollow lungs.
Coughing, sputtering, drowning.
I drown, and I drown, and I drown.
Gasping. Aching. Tasting.
Sweet little pill on the tip of my tongue.
Watching it burn. Letting it melt.
Seeing the world through the eyes of the young.
Setting themselves on fire just to feel the heat.
Burning, blistering, blazing.
Hazy.
Watching the world tilt.
Watching it fall.
Tip, shatter, cut.
We're bleeding. We're bleeding. We're bleeding.
Bandage us up, stitching the wound.
A plaster over an infection.
Another pill.
Another pill.
Another pill.
The infections still there.
The burning, putrid smell of ashes.
Heating us up, letting us boil. Red blisters, burning skin.
I drown, and I drown, and I drown.
The world's not spinning anymore, but we're still dizzy.
Sick, turning stomachs, bile rising.
The infections still there.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
Non-Fictionas the title suggests, this is legit going to be my diary. and yes, most diaries are supposed to be secret, but I have always been an open book. I like to pretend to be mysterious, but the people around me will all tell you that I am am someone who...
