it’s like that feeling of falling right when you’re about to fall asleep but some bastard has stretched it out for hours and now you have nothing to do but fall fall fall fall because you can’t sleep and you can barely breathe but you need to sleep and aren’t you just tired of that sad look in their eyes where you can see that they know that you will never get better?
and you start to hate them,
even though you know they’re helping,
because you’ve always hated orange,
and you hate the way you can never keep them quiet.
rattle rattle rattle
what’s irony again?
would it be ironic to break one into shards,
to dig the hard plastic into your skin?
not to die, not even to bleed,
but just because you’re tired?
maybe you wouldn’t hate them if they could give you some talent to work with