absolute mess

N.B. post-party depression. don’t do drugs kids. – lymh, 99 BC

you see,

it’s spun from your words,

sometimes i have found myself lost from your orbit
sometimes i have found myself inside your mouth

trying to taste my way back to the surface for air
some sort of gravity

to drag me here
my head hurts

you are like ingredients to me
and i am like a recipe for disaster

the burnt cake on your 20th
and the way my fingers run run run through your hair

liquidate the stars you animal


i’m so fucking high right now m8

i’m going to find you

at the top of the stairs somehow

ring on your finger
oceans begging you to drown yourself

no eggs left
i don’t know

where the fucking tea bags are
i don’t where your fucking car keys are

i asked you to drop your heart into my palm like a fat strawberry

and you said no no no no no non nonnononononononnonoonononononono

and i said yes yes yes yes ye sy esy ysyesy eysyesyesyesyesyesyesyesyyesyesyes

and then we squeezed sugar out of suns together

until sunrise,

messed about


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