The only consistency I have is the blunt that’s in rotation to myself. I look fine but in the inside fine is not how i felt. I’m stuck in a cycle of wanting to love with a love that for some reason isn’t given back to me. For awhile I’ve lost the tender site of things. The world isn’t clear; it revolves but we stand still. I got this blunt in my hand not giving a single fuck and once every bit is an ash my pain is completely tucked-deeper into my mind, wedged in between my soul. Heart is black as coal there’s no blood pumping through me it’s bubbling lava. It’s hot in here and nobody can let me out. It’s hot in here but I’m not gonna scream and shout. It’s hot in here- it’s ok I’ll figure it out.
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