you write about lust dripping from your thighs.
only ever giving the boy you love a thousand tries. just repeated attempts at a pure, yellow love. but all you know is loss. fear. how to run away from here.
you write about killing yourself slowly; how the days blended around themselves as you slipped away. losing months of your life and you don't know what's left or right. bogus psychosis. the flip of a rigged coin.
you write about how those men ripped you apart in a basement. speaking pretty superficial prose of how you don't know if you're still existing. are you still on highway seventy five? are you still trying to escape them or just your own skin?
you write of defeat consistently. it's almost uncanny how you spent all those years surviving, but don't know how to fight to save your life. you're never going to be right. yet, you laugh in utmost certainty.
will i ever speak of serenity?
will my bones ever stop breaking at the memories?
i want to be something beautiful, something pure
but it sounds so weak
so simple
so fucking boring
