No forty-five or medicine for the mess that’s in your head. There’s no way out of a made-up place, as far as we can relate. I’m too sorry, and you’re too naked for even you to see. Caustic and faithless, broken and vacant but as long as you’re still you - then I’m still me. You’re all sedatives and stimulants and your temperament can’t keep up. How many sleepless days will show the nights that you haven’t had enough? Dear aspirin disciple, the black, blue and brown will lose angst and then fade away. The lustre of comfort absent here just means that you’ll never have to say “I’m not okay.” Bruise me.
Back to Top