I don’t know why I’m in a rush to be someone else. I’m too afraid to be myself or let myself be me, and I’m almost envious of who I used to be.
I’m caught up in a hurricane. All I do is lay down as time passes by and the stress builds up. I wish I’d stop killing me like she is. She’s sick. She’s dying. Her disease is contagious. She’ll drag me down under. Soon, I’ll have nothing to lose.
I’ve never seen a living body decomposing before I saw what it’s like to be me. I wish I can learn to love something that’s been given to me but I can’t love something that asks for too much, and you’re asking me to be someone I never was.