paper flowers and half-closed eyelids and i could get up and do something, or stop spinning myself up in circles over nothing. but… i don’t want to.
and i’m constantly tired until the lightning shoots through my veins and fuck. i just… leave me alone, okay? let me curl up on this couch and let my body leave an imprint on the cushion as i slowly fade away because i don’t want to think. i don’t really want to do anything today.
don’t want to see my friends, or write a poem, or go on a walk, or dance around the kitchen.
auto-play episodes and crumpled clouds in my palms, and how do i know it’s real, and how do i know who to trust, and maybe… maybe i’m wrong.