I’ll bite through my cheek to prove i’m still here you can’t replace the feeling of adapting to feel at all
nihilistic, reserved, defensive and not unheard so praise yourself for being alive the masochist dance goes on Soft breath, black lungs, empty sighs, tired cries, I can’t recall a time when we cherished our condition
We are insecurtities packed in perfectly frail bodies, isn’t that the complexity that we romanticized? With a self deprived notion that things won’t get better. (It gets better) ((