Yesterday,
I smoked a Black and some random gave me some cookies
I was aite.
Went into my room and I felt like shit
Chest tight, lungs filled with airy concrete, and I was not in the best state for a guy
Who hasn't smoked in a couple of months
It was perfect
I am slightly (and secretly) in love with feeling impaired
There's a calm comfort in knowing that with my head high I can still move
Not literally move, but
I can't explain.
Suppose it harkens back to my fascination with destroying myself
A minimal way of enacting that desire
Because I bounce back from it all the time
It be like that,
Some days (or nights) I just need to kill myself a little bit
It's more than just functioning to me
The word "just" is one of my favorite words
Off topic
I digress
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Later Days and Longer Nights
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