i write myself a love song, but it’s always about you in the end. about your christmas lights, and your weathered smile, about a thousand fever dreams drifting through my head.

but these eyes watching me; they are ruthless and bleeding, so i shut my mouth, and i blend into the the crowd, and i guess i let a bunch of strangers control me. like their puppet on a string, their favourite new instrument, or should i just call myself a plaything?

so i go home. i lock my throat inside the closet. i drink rainwater from my favourite mug, and the acid burns my tongue. you know i eat that shit right up. let some crazed-artist fantasy worm its way into my skull.

i make a necklace from teeth. live off strange conspiracy theories, and broken glass. believe me, i don’t understand it anymore than you do.

so i go home. and i write myself a river; craft a bridge of tired metaphors and panicked similes. i build skyscrapers in my mind, colour in the lines of a bustling metropolis, all on my own. and one day, i’ll dig myself a grave; build a coffin from strangers’ bones. i’m not a good person. i know.

but please, weave me a breathtaking eulogy. imagine something better, and craft the prettiest fairy tale from whatever is left of me.

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