cold hands, words

watching the world burn and pulling up to warm my hands, roast a few friendships over the open wounds of old flames

asked the ouija board for answers, the spirits said try again later, my magic eight ball says that loneliness is my penance

walking along the river styx, no pennies for the ferry, i could swim but the straight jacket she locked me in is made of concrete

just another day in the endless loop of narcissistic remembrance, the cycle repeating because i refuse to learn from it once again

the cluster headache of youth misspent, of too much drink and sacrement, the distance between flucuating wildly in madness

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