My body less a body, more the wounds I found blooming in its flesh,
each its own gentle sainthood, a readiness for death.

All booze is just a sleeping pill now, I close my eyes. Love. You taste like someone waving. I try and drink away the thing in my brain that makes me wish these lines are really what I feel. Sometimes living is a swiss bliss and sometimes it’s a rot popsicle. The difference between bad living and bad loving is a slipped keystroke.