☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
We are soft, malleable things behind our
brittle masks. We dance to the music of
of our dying days, and the champagne tastes
a little bit like sadness, but maybe if we
drink enough of it we will drown. I'm sick
of wanting things I can't have. I'm sick
of feeling sick, with my life, with myself.
I'm sick of gritting my teeth for people
who would sooner punch through them.
I'm sick of smiling for a world that doesn't
want to look me in the eyes.
☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾☽☾
*Yours Truly*