It’s 7.45pm and I already want to crawl in bed to sleep the night away. i’ve been fighting the exhaustion for the past hour. i cant tell if this is S.A.D. or if its more (or less). its cold in my apartment and my limbs feel like they’re carrying more weight than i’m used to. there isn’t an ounce of motivation in me right now.
i wanted to sit and write (music) tonight; put music to these sets of words that continuously dance out of my cracked chest bone, dripping down my forearm to the tips of my fingers and across the lined paper. but there isn’t a needle sharp enough to draw the blood out, tonight. maybe its my past addict-self that needs & thrives from intensity. what’s the point of “mildly” feeling anyway?
i’m just waiting for my chest to get kicked in again so i lose my breath and crack into thousands of pieces so i can bleed, me, onto the tabletops. my book would be easier to read & my lyrics more tangible.
its cold in my apartment & all i want is your skin draped across mine.