kinkystepdad
mr. seratonin man, lend me a gram
I need to get out. This evasiveness is controlling me entirely.
I don't love you mom.
A ubiquity of forged facial contortions and rehearsed conversations; all of these things you do in order to fertilize the discomfort in your skin.
An undeniable indecisiveness. For ten seconds it's tumultuous and sublime. It's profound and it's raw - it's there with the suds in your straw, making even the sores in your mouth seem fruitful. And for the ten months following, it's anything but. It's condoned in a vector and it's forced. It's null and it's empty - it's there with the fatigue that stirs itself into dark circles under your eyes.
It's temporary, and all of the sudden you don't want it to be.
An asinine so omnipresent. You look in the rotting grass - Children playing, their teeth slitting through the forged ambiance as they nod their heads.
It's never going to change.
writing since 2015 · 6 entries · 6 days shown up
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the words Elizabeth reaches for
realforgedteninternetcuriositydesireshitsearchhistorybettermotherasinineomnipresentrottinggrasschildren