by Glass Lungs & The Month Of Broken Fingers
(Burlington Ontario)

My unsteadying feet are getting jealous of my ever resting self control. I hear the fizzle of myself dissolving. I'm pouring gasoline on this dying flickering of a blaze that i identify as, but it's all turning to fumes. This light is growing dimmer and that's all I want at times, the relief that that meaninglessness brings. I'm snapping in and out of existence, the day is gone again. The hours seem to be running away and I broke the legs that drove me to catch them. It's the push I wish didn't become the shove that threw me from the platform where my reality resides. Now I'm sinking further into this fall, anticipating the bottom. Resting my eyes on the distancing light that uncovered the faces that I thought cared but are now leaving me. Putting my hope in the things that make me hopeless, I know too well that there's a way out of this. But I refuse to accept the un-bottling of this leech, I'm hiding behind a broken mirror. It's all turning to fumes.

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