just once more, once.

when i look around, i see great things. when i lying down on the bathroom floor, i see the blue of the wall, i see constellations in the scars, all swirling around in shitty seas. archers made of paint, they drip down to the tiles.

(she's screaming, she's screaming, she's screaming, she's screaming.)

the problem is. these things, they are only mine. no one else will know, and when you stare, some things will not share their secret name.

(you're pathetic, rot, wreck. cross your legs, teeter around your knuckles, cry into the headphones. they will never know.)

all these fucking songs, these nights. the little leaps in my chest. the way i drift under the rain. i pull my sleeves up, it makes me feel okay. i sit at the bottom of a bedroom wall and feel it crawl up over me. i'm hoping you'll notice me.

i can't take the world for what it is. it has so little magic when...

you can not expect great things from everything that does not see the stars in your paint.