i think about getting better every thursday, for half an hour. i look at quotes on instagram, and take long, depressing showers, as a headache bores into my skull, with no sign of surrender.
and then… i take french lessons from a computer. i play my guitar, and i answer the phone, and i guess it all just kinda gets lost in the blur, you know?
i lie awake at night, and i entertain the concept of recovery like a fun hobby. and then wonder why my mattress smells like smoke.
i push the blame to yesterday; fall in love with a stranger and cry when they go. melt my heart with pillar candles, and watch the plastic run. just because, i suppose.
i numb my head beneath six feet of melting snow. and ten months later, when the world is dusty and dry, it’ll be better. right? i’ll wash my face, i’ll change my ways, i’ll put on some fresh clothes.
because it’s nice to entertain, you know? a crystalline fantasy, so far and yet so close. and sure my lungs are dusty black, and red, just like you. but i guess if you hurt for long enough, the mind can get accustomed to anything–because this shit is nothing new.