isn’t it ironic
how we kill
I will always love you the same. No amount of smoke, or heavy lipstick, or locks on your bedroom door could change that.
You are the painting I want to hang over my bed and look down over me while I sleep; with your colors swirling over my head.
You play such a pretty song with your words, and I can’t even sleep anymore, since you’ve stopped singing to me.
Now, you sing in your head, your pretty little head, because you had stopped sleeping.
but think of all the sinners now, who just lay, and stare right through their ceilings, up at the empty stars, and stay awake because your words hang like skeletons.
from the lack of sleep, I’ll become a ghost. If you don’t beat me to it.
If I could I would shrink myself,
and sink through your skin to your blood cells,
and remove whatever makes you hurt.
“you cant have depression i saw you smile like five minutes ago stop crying”