fermented-elegance

I've been dreaming of heroin and estranged silhouettes I think there's a correlation of deterioration and illogical goals that can't be met. I can't write anymore because I can't fuck. and I can't fuck because my obsolete odious entity was once made of sunshine and graham crackers but is now an arduous cold sore. So here I am, dead bloodshot eyes and pores seeping with melancholic melodies. an old condensation ring left on the table by something once relished and antique fortitude dissipates from my hand. I stare at my reflection wondering if I'm really there I graze my cracked lips with fingertips and I can't help but feel sorry for yo