There is nothing poetic in writing about the agonies that's rotting my insides or the yawning abyss in my head or the screams that's scraping my throat— or writing about death but secretly hoping for someone to see my cries for help between the lines. And yet I make it so, because I don't know how will I survive the rest when I tell myself the truth every time.
There is nothing poetic in writing about the agonies that's rotting my insides or the yawning abyss in my head or the screams that's scraping my throat— or writing about death but secretly hoping for someone to see my cries for help between the lines. And yet I make it so, because I don't know how will I survive the rest when I tell myself the truth every time.