'Love' doesn't change anything. It gives a different perspective in the day, but come night and it is the ugliest thing. My love for trains and insects and a human to call mine? Without sunlight they're just strips of my raw skin hanging from my face.
A book that I wrote isn't supposed to exist. Songs I'd listened to shouldn't be familiar to me today. Truth is, I should have been dead three years ago, in the month of April. Or even from way before, June of 2015. I shouldn't be having these panic attacks on my single bed because I should've died on one, four and a half years ago.
What do you blame when everything is fine and you're still feeling like this? I can't breathe I can't breathe I can't breathe
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