Condemned

I’m so sorry I’m not a giver. I’m sorry I don’t waste my life away onto the first person who tells me they want me; yet, I still have poor judgment.

I’m sorry for constantly trying to walk in other people’s shoes only to tie their laces together and watch them trip and fall.

I’m sorry I see the earth as an emotion, rather than a place of being.

Things take too much time. In my eyes, that are equal to the large muscle that beats behind my breasts, I don’t see “the life in pink.” Indeed, everything is monochrome.

I hate that in the same way that my delusions have grown, I’ve learned the art of objectification- in a way, this is the only remedy that sanctifies my anxious heart.

If I take one extra sip of the lifeblood that renews me, I’ll probably die because the reusable air inside of me has finally become polluted.

I don’t like loneliness.

And I don’t like the grueling feeling of knowing what it means to be stuck

In a condemned cycle.