The journey to rottance may be the worst one yet.
When will my letters to the universe and the letters to my affection stop getting confused for one another?
I am a portrait in gray scale, a perfect betrayal. I wish that this was all a dream and you were coming back to me, but I can't even sleep.
As I lay here I really feel I am of the dying. I can't breathe with this weighing on my chest. My depression is so bad today I understand Sylvia Plath. Maybe I seemed okay at the library but I am not. I am not. I am rot. Can someone please help me find my feet?
Perhaps I share what I shouldn't, but I want someone to see me. I want to be a person.
You're like an antidote to emptiness.
