“My bed sheets are worn, but not in the way that means I got what I wanted, just in the way that I’ve been thinking up stars and counting them off my ceiling for far too long. The air is stale but I inhale-exhale because my breath isn’t being stolen or bought. I rip rose petals from my heart and blow them to my mind, a neverending doubt that’s left up to chance. There’s one thing I’m sure of, but we’ll see what’s left of it when the vultures in my head descend.”
My heart is worn.
My head is worn.
You’ll just have to understand this.
And accept it.
