I’m stuck in this place where my depressed state somehow doesn’t equate
Like, pretty girls don’t dig their own graves at 19.
And maybe pretty girls don’t.
I am choosing to stay bed-ridden.
Induced sleep that doesn’t solve anything,
But you don’t know what my dreams are like.
Dripping with fantastic seduction,
Never-ending good moods.
Not just the fleeting moments of O.K that plant themselves into my week [like weeds with bright flowers].
I rip them out at night, expose their faults and flawed design.
Pick apart smiles that seemed so genuine at the time.
I wish no ills on my enemies,
I don’t actually have any, so..
I just carry around their ills.
Offloaded on me at some party, someones house.
Pack-mule of a girl.
The past doesn’t scare me as much as the prospect of a lazy future does.