Everyone’s comfortable. No one cares.
As freely as it comes, it goes; waxing and waning with no rhythm. The only constant being that of change. Undesirable.
Truths become fiction as you wish, because you wish. Wrong.
Tears drip save for an unusual stain. The becoming is due to our part, and its effects a weight that drags on the features that comprise our essence. It presses and pulls and sucks from us as we give and give. We only hope for good; there is only so much. Our wants may be pressed upon separate highways at the will of the passing; yet still do they reach for one way. Not satisfied.
The drain is immense. Unbearable.
We’re just sinking; losing our bearings. These tears shouldn’t be mine.
idk i really like being called cute but i also really like hearing that you masturbate to the thought of me idk
I fucking suck