the woodsmoke contaminates our lungs.
because no matter how hard i fight, in the end i’ll always lose you. i was never cut out to play the hero. but what else am i supposed to do?
so i stay up until 2am, painting the glass ceiling a perfect shade of blue. even though my mask, i can still smell the paint fumes.
but i will keep going. i will ignore the blinding sunrise, digging its pins and needles in my eyes; i will grit my teeth, and push through…
but i don’t understand. how come the rivers of poison always seem to follow you?