Bubble boy, an insignificant cell on a strangers body. A nobody, with no purpose, but i'll still find a way to draw parallels to who looks better with their shirt off. Now it feels like the world is spinning too quickly and sometimes I just can't fucking believe that I'm here right now. Please, I'm begging you to compare me to someone else. Spit in my mouth, then on my chest. Let me taste you so when you're gone i'll know exactly what I'm missing. It's 1am and I want to be a part of you in ways you'll only bring up when you talk shit on me years later. Until then i'll kiss your stretch marks, and you'll run your fingers across old scars, and together we'll repeat 'i love you' until the mirror breaks.
The root of my problems doesn't have a root at all. It isn't a string or trail of breadcrumbs I can follow back to a single moment. It isn't a suppressed thought. It's the voice that convinces me my thoughts were worth suppressing in the first place.