the FOURTH of APRIL, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY ONE.

i want to be the one to wrap myself up in lilac-tinted bubblewrap. protect myself from the blunt force of reality.
i spilled my everything into this little cup of mortality but it always gets thrown back into my face, scalding.
blistering and leaking and pink-raw, i feel like fucking screaming. my throat is sore with the ghost of it.
i wish i was mint-condition, innocent and pure again. untouched and unseen, free of sun-damage.
but i'm mutilated and destroyed and corrupted, smashed into little pieces and stuck together again.
i'm running out of things to say, to make beautiful. i only have fragmented feelings and fragmented thoughts,
incoherently painful. i burn from the inside out, i feel it ravaging my bones and melting my flesh.
i think i'm dying. not naturally, no, but i'm dying. everything is running out, time is running out,
my fire is running out, my beauty is running out. i'm hollow, all i have is unrequited need and want,
a piece of my shattered self never returned. i feel like scratching my skin away, it's impure. it's fake,
i'm fake and all i can think about is how much i fucking ache. i just want it to fucking stop. i crave fantasy.
you destroyed me

take me back!