you treat conversations like materialistic objects you strive to gain

peach pit

peach pit aren't yours, they're mine.

they sound like cheap bubblegum flavoured longing, red-orange desperation for experiences outside of their bedroom window.

peach pit is peach pit. i am peach pit. peach pit is me.

if my brain had a sound it would be neils voice, it feels so good against my skin. my blood probably tastes like chris' guitar solos and my heart steadily matches the bum bum bumps of peter's bass and the bam bam bams of mikey's drums.

you can't listen to peach pit anymore because that would be like listening to my body.

peach pit is peach pit. i am peach pit. peach pit is me.