It's still eating me, gnawing within me. Yet, the world doesn't stop.

I am not intoxicated, not yet. It feels depressing though.

My honest opinion? There's really not much left here. Except for the people who have impacted my life in one way or another, there really isn't much here.

I might be gone. Away from here. To someplace else. Where life starts all over. I might.

I bury my face in my palms. My head hangs low. Lips, bitten. My eyes, they tell the real story. But so far, no one wants to know.


What does it mean to me, perfection?
To be happy.
Right now, I'm not.


I am 23 years old...

or 276 months old
or 1,200 weeks old
or 8,403 days old

& Just for one day, I'd like to be perfect. To have all the things I want in life. To achieve all parts of my happiness. Let me just, for once, taste this invisible entity, which is only interpreted through facial expressions and a healthy heart.

Too much to ask? Fuck you.