there’s a slow feeling of whataboutism that surrounds recovery. hypotheticals take over daydreams, romanticizing the ugly and warping my perception of unhappy. i’m an addict to misery because i wear it so pretty, crystalline tears that crave toxicity, to be taken over by runoffs and washed of their purity. getting better tastes like spring, like trying to brave the unstable weather before it blows over an unsuspecting flower. getting better tastes like moments of power followed by return to failure. swinging, swinging, stop. i wish it would stop. when will failure stop attracting me, when will death stop tempting me. saccharine coatings & hidden motifs, i crave the flood, i crave feeling. i’m an addict to adrenaline, being pulled and pushed by fates outside of my feeble mortality. take a swing, physics taught me motion. hit me don’t stop.
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