There's a weight in the room now, a remembrance of childhood. It sinks like a stone, or a heart, or my weight on a good day.
My desperation is deliberate. Despondency's a pheromone.
And then he's somewhere inside of me, each thrust rattling my ribcage like a bottle of pills. I'm somewhere outside of myself, thinking about lust— about my slutty white sheets and all the men who like to hide in them.
You burn bright and you burn hard, like a fire in a dumpster,and nobody is so worriedabout you burning as they are worried about the fire spreading.
You are only as deepas the ashtrays you use. You only stick around because you like the abuse.
I’m a lot like you,and you’re a lot like me.It’s sad to say,and it’s sad to see.
It isn’t easy,” is easy to say and sometimes I think that the only thing we can dois say really easy things to each other.
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