(no subject)
round two: my stomache still hurts and the room is still pitch black. The smoke obscures my view and I feel highly paranoid. But even the most enduring of us find ways to derive beauty from our pain. I'm becoming cliche. Don't tell me twice. We pressed to our lips and sucked eachothers wounds like honey. It was not melevolent in nature, it was an open window, a momentary satisfaction. And I'll keep coming back till all the colors fade. little spider veins in the mirrior... lengthy cracks, blowing smoke against the view. This is me, being light hearted