"Still not good enough."

"Just like my father says to me."

"Just like Michelle, on top."

Not like the image I created of you, the image I shatter each day. One more pill, another bottle hits the scratched, wooden floor. I burn what you gave to me, because there are no excuses.

Maybe he is just an idiot, I would think to myself.
No -- it can't be. I would never have felt such a way for someone so small.

The mystery behind all of this is I never actually felt anything, not at all.
We are in love with our ideas, our situations, which we create for ourselves.

They are not permanent. They change, constantly. There is no such thing as stability. There is no such thing a consistency. There are only patterns we can hope are healthy, but no pattern is healthy. Nothing can be done in moderation. What is good for me destroys me.


I wrote a fucking awesome song.