I'm holding to do the things I want with you. I'm trying to start it; a planet without an atmosphere. Tomorrow, I'll be on my way. I'll be on.

Fuck you, you stupid fucking piece of shit. You're never going to more than a mistake that I deluded myself into thinking was something I needed and wanted. I'm not feeling suicidal anymore, because I rather it be you who's dead; a piece of trash I didn't bother picking up off the floor after I missed the trash can.


I can feel the flies picking up the endless end of my skin; creatures that I wish weren't my death. Now and forever, I'll try to keep my eyes open for the serenity in my fucked up situation while not having any whim of a sense of control. Is it okay if I scream every once and a while? And if I hae a cigarette to calm my nerves, would that be okay, too? Because I need to feel the security that I've never been provided with, and I need to feel like I have some kind of understanding. 


It's a hard shell and I can't get through, and that's pretty much the way I like it; an unfortunate defense after having none for so long. You fucked me.