Won’t say
I’m scared because I, this could be some really pretty, sweeping narrative. I have the skill, I know my craft well enough to paint this picture of scared and lonely, but fuck it. I don’t feel pretty inside, I don’t have any pretty words to bleed, even if I cut both wrists wide open. She won’t say, “I love you! Come back to me,” so I’m scared. The drugs will hit me, and I’ll get sleepy, and nothing will feel beautiful, and maybe I won’t find my way back.
Share me:
